The Midnight Dragon
by artemiskat
Summary: A day of reckoning has arrived for the Warden Commander of Ferelden. However, fate  -or is it chance?-  intervenes, tossing everything into disarray.  4th of a continuing story
1. Chapter 1

_Note: Confusion may present itself in your mind if you haven't already read my other stories, for this one is a continuation of my Wardens' adventures. In addition, there are a lot of original characters, so I would recommend reading the other stories (_Redemption_, _Secrets of the Hunt_, and _The Runaway_, in that order). But you don't have to. It is just a suggestion. _

Chapter 1

It was the kind of snow that stuck to boots, squeaking as they hit the ground, and which made walking more an effort than a pleasure. The sky was clear now, the sun even making an appearance, helping to melt the snow. Some villagers grudgingly left their houses to shovel the white stuff. A path to their neighbours, to the market, and to the Keep would do in the interim for most. For it was heavy, back breaking work. The worst type of snow. To children, however, it was the best kind.

Sammy ran through the village, picking up handfuls of snow and rolling them into perfect spheres. Yes, this was the kind of snow that snowballs were made of. He happily chased around some of the other Keep's children, throwing snowballs at them with a laugh. He hid behind crates and never once got hit himself. Laughing, proud of himself, he lifted his head to peek above the crate. The other children had fled already.

Frowning, he got up and bounced the snowball up and down in his hand. Well, this was no fun anymore now that there were no more victims. Bored, he made his way back to the Keep. Just by Wade and Herren's stand, he caught a glimpse of them. The Wardens – they had returned at last. He looked to the snowballs still in his hand, considering them. With a mischievous grin, he took aim at the Wardens, their backs to him.

The snowballs hurtled through the air in a wide arc, like stones being launched from a catapult. They thudded first onto Melisende's back, and then onto Tristan's. Melisende and Tristan both turned around, wondering who had the nerve to do such a thing. As they caught sight of Sammy, he burst into joyful laughter.

"Why, you little rascal!" Melisende cried out with a smile. She felt a tugging at her chest as she saw the boy, realizing only now how much she had missed him.

"Oh, we're not going to let him get away with that, are we?" Tristan looked to Melisende with a smirk. Melisende shook her head. They reached into the snow and made quick snowballs.

"Ah!" Sammy exclaimed, taking cover behind a post as the snowballs came flying in his direction. Nonplussed by the counterattack, Sammy made some more snowballs, rolling them as fast as his little palms could. He jumped into the open, launching the fresh projectiles at the Grey Wardens. This time, however, he missed.

"Oh, Sammy, get over here." Melisende trudged through the snow, holding her arms out to the boy.

Sammy hesitated for a moment. Really, he was too old to run into her arms. If one of the other children saw him... ah whatever, he would settle any teasing with his fists. He was too happy to see her. Sammy ran, hopped more like it, through the snow and launched himself into Melisende's arms. She lifted him up briefly, twirling him around with a laugh.

"I've missed you," she said as she put him down. He smiled as Tristan pat him on the back and ruffled his hair.

"I missed you guys too. It's about time you decided to come home." Sammy said excitedly. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, planting his feet wide apart, and pouted. "I was starting to think you were staying away just to avoid my sword lessons."

Melisende laughed, placing a hand on his neck and leading him towards the Keep. "Of course not. Don't be silly."

Sammy stopped. "The new Grey Warden... I don't like her. I _hate_ her."

Tristan looked at Sammy askance. "Isn't that word a little strong?"

Sammy shook his head, his blonde curls bouncing up and down. "Oh no. You'll see. Even Nathaniel gets riled up by her. And you know him; it takes a rock and a hard place for him to show any emotion."

Melisende laughed at Sammy's description of Nathaniel. It was so true. "Speaking of Nathaniel, shall we go inside?"

"Sure, but Nathaniel's not inside. He's on patrol." Sammy replied, trudging forward ahead of the two Wardens. Melisende gave Tristan a puzzled look.

"In this weather?" she asked Tristan.

Tristan shrugged. "Nathaniel's letter did say she was driving everyone crazy, no? In any case, I'm going to have a word with this Clotilde Caron as soon as we get into the Keep." Tristan looked a little troubled, but moved forward nonetheless.

Disappointed that her reunion with Nathaniel would have to wait, Melisende followed her Commander into the Keep with a sigh. She wasn't sure what to expect. Anders and Justice were gone. And this Orlesian Warden, what was her purpose in being at the Keep in the first place? She guessed she would soon find out, for better or worse.

...

Mistress Woolsey came careening out of the great hall, shaking her head to and fro, motioning with her hands. She clearly was frustrated. She grumbled under her breath, muttering about finances, failing to notice Tristan and Melisende coming to a pause in front of her. Instead, she brushed by them, parting them from each other's side. Tristan regarded Woolsey with slight amusement and then looked to Melisende questioningly.

"Woolsey, too upset to notice us?" Melisende asked in wonderment.

"Rather disturbing. She usually has a mouthful to say to me about the Keep's finances." Tristan replied, shrugging. He walked calmly toward the great hall Woolsey had just exited from. "Well, there could only be one reason for that..."

He entered into the hall, Melisende close behind him. At the end of the room, beyond the great hearth, stood the seneschal, Varel, who was deep in conversation with two figures. The first figure was clad in heavy plate armour, their back to Tristan. The only way that Tristan could tell that this was a woman was the figure's hair – it was pale blonde and pulled back into a braided bun, only a hairstyle a woman would wear. Otherwise, the armour left no hint at all. In front of her was a man, dark haired and goateed, also clad in heavy plate armour. As Tristan and Melisende drew nearer, he spotted them, and then inclined his head slightly in their direction.

"The Orlesian Warden." Melisende whispered as they came to a stop in front of Varel. Varel looked terribly relieved at their arrival, looking to the roof of the hall as if in thanks to the Maker. The woman turned around, a look of disdain on her face.

"So, the Hero of Ferelden has finally deigned to return to his duties," she said before Varel could emit any kind of greeting.

Tristan couldn't help but tense up at her scowl and the way she spoke his moniker with barely restrained contempt and mockery. It was a moniker he disliked himself but was powerless to stop people from using. It was also the first time he had heard somebody say it in such a way. He could feel Melisende get riled up beside him, begin to propel herself forward. No, he wasn't going to let her defend him. He put his arm out, holding her back, giving her a slight nod of reassurance. She bit her lower lip in consternation, but held back as he wished.

"Clotilde Caron, I assume?" Tristan questioned the woman. She nodded ever so slightly, her pale green eyes glowing with scorn, her delicate features bunching up into another frown. She would be pretty – if she weren't so condescending. As it was, her stance was that of a puffed up warrior, proud as a peacock in her Grey Warden plate armour.

"You presume rightly." Clotilde replied with a heavy Orlesian accent. Tristan winced at her voice. It reminded him of Leliana. Shaking the thought out of his mind, he moved closer.

"Tell me, just what are you doing in my Keep?" he asked immediately, wanting to get it out of the way at once. Clotilde seemed to be getting on everyone's nerves and he wanted to know why.

Clotilde arched her left brow very noticeably. "Your Keep?" It was her turn to step closer. Tristan unconsciously flexed his palms. "When I arrived here, there was no Commander."

"That doesn't give you the right to issue commands." Tristan retorted.

Clotilde laughed, a harsh and gruff laugh, as if the action was not common to her. "I did what needed to be done. The Keep was a mess and I fixed it. You, on the other hand, were nowhere to be found. I figured you'd show up sooner or later so I made myself comfortable in the meantime."

Tristan shook his head. He could see the others' dislike for Clotilde. She was arrogant and presumptuous. He did not want to deal with her for longer than he had to. He tried to steer the conversation back to her reason for being there, for wanting to see him. "What do you want with me? Tell me and be gone."

"No." Clotilde replied with a sense of finality.

"No?" Tristan asked, confused. "No, what?"

"Just no. I will speak to you on my terms." Clotilde answered. She leaned in close to Tristan, so close that he could feel her hot breath on his neck. She lowered her voice to a quiet but threatening whisper. "You have a lot to answer for."

With those words, Clotilde left the hall, her male companion following on her heels. Tristan couldn't believe the woman's nerve. He was Commander here, not her. Yet she had the nerve to not only command his charges, but to threaten him as well. He looked to Melisende, who watched the receding back of Clotilde with a curled lip and a look of disbelief.

"What a _bitch_." Melisende remarked. Tristan couldn't help but think the same. Things certainly wouldn't be dull around here for a while.

"Orlesians." Varel piped in.

"We should speak, Varel." Tristan said and then turned his attention back to Melisende. "See you later?"

"Definitely." Melisende replied, taking her leave.

"So Varel, I should apologize for leaving and creating this mess. It must not have been easy these past few months." Tristan said.

"Commander, I am just glad you have returned." Varel smiled.

Tristan took a deep breath. "To business then." He thought he would never see the Keep again. Didn't think he'd care if somebody else took his job. But now that he was back, he relished the challenge this Clotilde was laying out before him. Nobody would get the better of him in his own command. Nobody.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Melisende travelled the cold and dark hallways of the Keep with quiet joy. She ran a hand along the stone walls, greeting them, happy to be back. She couldn't wait to see the others. Especially Nathaniel. She hoped he would be back soon. And then she thought of Anders and Justice. They were not at Vigil's Keep any longer. She didn't even know if they were alive. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the gruesome details Nathaniel had promised to tell her in person. Nothing in her mind, in her memory, could make her think the worst of Anders. He had always been a good friend and his light presence, she knew without a doubt, would surely be missed.

She paused along the wall and sighed. She was glad to be back, but things had changed. It certainly would be an interesting winter. Smiling to herself, she continued on down the hallway. As she turned a corner, she saw him, his bow slung on his back, walking quietly away from her. _Nathaniel_.

Grinning like a lovesick fool, Melisende darted down the hallway towards him. He didn't have time to turn around and see what hit him, so quick was she to grab a hold of his arm, dragging him into a little room of sacks and crates. Closing the door behind them, she stood before him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Finally noticing who had ambushed him, Nathaniel cracked a slight smile, wiping the angry frown off of his face.

"Melisende!" he said in surprise.

"Nathaniel." Melisende replied teasingly. She moved toward him slowly, savouring the sight of him after so long without him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

"You've been gone too long..." Nathaniel said as he leaned in to kiss her. As their lips met in a gentle passion, Melisende ran her hands through his hair, shivering as his own hands caressed her backside. And then her mind spoiled the moment when it flashed of its own accord to an image of a certain insufferable elf. _Ronan_. Alarmed, she withdrew from Nathaniel's arms, one of her hands reaching, again of its own will, to the pouch at her side. The pouch contained a delicate pink flower, a gift from him.

"Something wrong?" Nathaniel asked with concern and confusion mingled onto his features.

Melisende brushed back her hair from her face. "I'm just tired," she lied. _Stupid, stupid Melisende_, she chided herself.

"Oh." Nathaniel replied.

Melisende thought he looked a little too relieved. She frowned. "Why do you look so relieved?"

"I admit, I am tired too. I would love to welcome you home... properly." Nathaniel shrugged.

"It's that woman, isn't it? Sammy told me she's working all of you hard." Melisende remarked.

"I know Grey Wardens are supposed to remain vigilant, but this woman, she takes it too far. It's always _do this, do that_, running us around on useless patrols that turn up nothing. I swear, I am expecting her to ask me to fetch her a glass of water next. She goes on and on about the deep roads in the Free Marches and about how the Wardens need to go investigate them, but she keeps us here, in this little corner of Ferelden." Nathaniel explained, quietly furious.

"Well, Tristan is back now. Things will return to normal very soon." Melisende tried to reassure him.

"I hope so. She is infuriating." Nathaniel grumbled.

Melisende smiled. His quiet fury was so attractive. But she couldn't get _him_ out of her mind. Maybe she was tired. A good rest would surely do them both good. "Shall we retire then?"

...

"By the stone, it's good to see you!" Oghren proclaimed as Tristan made his way into the kitchens, where a few of the Wardens were sitting around, playing cards. Before he had entered he noticed they looked tense and watchful. "It's been all work and no play around here," Oghren continued, tossing down his cards. _No play? What are these cards for then? _Tristan thought with an inward chuckle.

"Come on, I wasn't that easy on you guys." Tristan remarked, looking the little group over. Besides Oghren, Sigrun, Velanna, and a familiar looking young man were also seated at the table. He remembered the young man as one of the recruits, but couldn't recall his name. Was he the only one that stuck around, that passed the Joining? With an inward sigh, Tristan realized that he wasn't doing a very good job at rebuilding the Ferelden order. Anders had fled, Justice was nowhere to be found, so that left six Wardens under his command.

"No, but running suicidally into hordes of darkspawn was a lot more fun with you in command." Sigrun said, breaking through his thoughts. Tristan couldn't help but smile at her comment. Sigrun was always so morbid, but always so cheerful about it.

"Sigrun, Oghren, Velanna," Tristan nodded to each in greeting. "And, I'm sorry I don't remember your name."

The young man dropped his cards and stood up to attention as he realized the Commander was talking to him. He smoothed back his red hair and cleared his throat. "My name is Madoc, ser."

Oghren pulled Madoc back down into his seat. "Stop acting like a fool. This Commander don't bite. Remember?"

Tristan chuckled. "So you undertook the Joining?"

"Yes." Madoc looked nervously at the Commander, his hazel eyes darting back and forth between Oghren and Tristan.

"Were you the only one?"

Madoc nodded.

"The other recruits were cowards. They left when they heard that mage boy went psycho. Said they didn't need to put themselves in a hopeless situation." Oghren explained.

"Well, Madoc, thanks for sticking it out. Congratulations and welcome to the Grey Wardens." Tristan said.

"Thank you, ser. Being a Grey Warden is not a dream come true, but it's better than where my life was headed." Madoc replied bashfully.

"There's an interesting story there, I bet. We should have some drinks one day." Tristan meant it and Madoc could tell. Madoc nodded his agreement. Tristan took a seat with the others. "So, why did you even obey Clotilde?"

"We had no choice, really." Sigrun answered. "And it's not that we disagreed with what she was telling us to do, it was the way she worked us. She sends us to deserted caverns and hardly gives us any breaks at all. And for all her faults, she did bring order to chaos."

"Mage boy left a big mess." Oghren put in.

"No choice?" Tristan prodded. How could they have no choice?

"She claims to have been a Warden since she was eighteen." Oghren grunted as if he didn't believe that statement. "She played the seniority card."

"She said she was sent to replace you." Velanna explained further, sending Tristan an accusing glare. "How were we to know the truth?"

"It felt like she was punishing us." Sigrun mentioned.

Tristan looked at each of his Wardens. He put them in this position. It was his running that did this. He would fix it as soon as he could. Tristan sent them an apologetic look. "I am sorry. You guys deserve better than this."

"We're not children. We'll get over it." Sigrun reassured him.

Tristan turned his attention to Velanna. She was no longer glaring at him. Tristan was honestly a little surprised that she was fraternizing with the other Wardens and that she was still around at all. But, she was an outcast from her clan. He supposed the Grey Wardens were her clan now. He arose from his seat. "I promised you something before I left. Can we talk, privately?" Tristan asked Velanna. She looked up at him curiously and then stood up.

"Of course." Velanna agreed. They left the kitchens to stand in the dimly lit hallway.

"I didn't want to say this in front of the others because I still can't really wrap my head around it." Tristan explained.

"What do you mean? What exactly are you talking about?" Velanna questioned him.

"Remember you asked me about my tattoos?" Tristan questioned back.

"Yes." Velanna answered with confusion.

"My mother gave them to me."

"You found your mother?"

Tristan nodded. "She is Dalish."

Velanna scrutinized him closely, as if she didn't believe what he had just told her. "Then your father must be human, for you don't look Dalish."

"He was."

"So, that Dalish elf that came looking for you here, he was sent by his father to fetch you. Did it have something to do with your mother?" Velanna inquired curiously.

"Yes. She was ill. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow if you want. I'm a little tired now." Tristan said, yawning. He was tired. The journey back to the Keep and the meeting with Clotilde had drained what energy he had left.

"Ronan was looking for you for his mother who was also ill..." Velanna said thoughtfully. "He is your half brother then?"

Tristan sighed. "Yes he is. He certainly doesn't leave any good impression wherever he goes." Tristan thought about Alistair's reaction, which had been disbelief and pity.

Velanna actually smiled. "He was rather rude. I remember now thinking that he looked familiar. It was the eyes. You share the same eyes. That must be from your mother."

Tristan nodded and yawned again, though he tried not to.

"Oh, I am rambling now. We'll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow. Go sleep."

"Thank you Velanna."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Grandfather, spar with me!"

Theron looked up from his work to see his grandson Ronan running his dirty little fingers all over his work, some of which was sharp and dangerous. He shook his head in annoyance, but smiled slightly nonetheless. Ronan was so exuberant and curious, not unlike his mother used to be, but he was also very troublesome. He never did as he was told. "Careful, _da'mi_."

Ronan, not surprisingly, chose to ignore his grandfather's warning. He picked up Theron's most prized sword, a blade which was charcoal coloured and made of bone, but deadly sharp. The hilt was made of ironbark and Theron had spent a lot of time and effort carving the designs into it. The blade, however, was too heavy for Ronan and he had a hard time holding it up. Though Theron was both cross and worried about this action, he couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of the boy trying to swing the blade in the air. Ronan had an obsession with swords, thus his nickname – _da'mi_ – little blade.

Theron arose from his workbench, his legs propelling him forward toward the little ruffian. Very carefully, he stopped Ronan from waving around the sword and took it away from him. Ronan looked up at him, furrowing his brow in anger.

"Spoilsport," Ronan muttered as Theron pushed him away gently, ruffling his hair.

"You are not old enough for this blade." Theron told him with a sigh.

"Father lets me play with a bow. What is the difference?" Ronan grumbled.

"All Dalish learn to use a bow from a young age. But blades, they are different. One cannot just pick up a blade and use it. The blade must choose him." Theron explained patiently.

"Bah," Ronan held up his hands in submission. "You keep telling me that. I don't believe you. I will choose a blade and not the other way around."

Theron shook his head at his headstrong grandson. He was just a boy but he was already trouble. He hoped Silas would curb Ronan's impatience. It was not his place to do so.

"Go make trouble elsewhere, I am busy, _da'mi_." Theron turned around to return to his work.

Ronan frowned. "Fine. Where's that _halla _turd Rhys? I have a challenge for him." Ronan slammed his right fist into his left palm with a mischievous smirk.

...

A fierce pain shot through his left arm and Ronan awoke with a start. He lifted it up and sighed loudly as he realized he had been dreaming again. The hand was not there. It was only a sleeve tied together to hide the ghastly stump that remained. He would never hold a shield nor aim a bow again. He closed his eyes and let his head slam back onto the tree he was resting against. He wanted sleep to return to him.

It was only in his dreams that he got any peace. There, in the Beyond, he was whole again. He was useful. His grandfather Theron was always there, never pitying him, always making him feel like he could do anything. And then he would wake and reality would hit him like a stone.

Since he and his mother had swiftly returned home from Denerim, avoiding the heavy snows, Ronan slept as much as he could. The waking world was too painful. It was more of a nightmare than any place in the Beyond. He couldn't hunt anymore and he couldn't even climb into the trees, not the way that he used to anyway. He could lug himself up if he tried hard enough, but he didn't have the heart anymore. What was the use anyway? Even the women looked at him differently now. Who wanted a husband who couldn't hunt, even if he had saved the clan?

He should have been there, when the slavers first came. It wouldn't have gone that far, they wouldn't have lost anybody, and he wouldn't have lost his hand. But that's not what had happened. The only mercy in that whole mess was that it had been his shield hand and not his sword hand. He could still use a sword, but what good was that here, with his clan? They had sealed up the passageway that the slavers had used, all without Ronan. They set watches around the camp, all without Ronan. They obviously thought him useless. He glared miserably at his left arm. In the corner of his vision, he noticed Ash lying beside him, his ears perking up at a sound in the forest.

"You know, _lethallin_, staring at it is not going to make it grow back." Rhys appeared from the forest, lobbing himself onto the cold ground in front of Ronan. Ronan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head away from his cousin's gaze.

"Leave me alone, Rhys."

"Your father is looking for you." Rhys said, ignoring Ronan's wish.

Ronan let out his breath in exasperation. "What for?"

"Something about sending the hunters to gather our stores." Rhys replied.

Ronan forced a laugh. "Now he wants me to help? Is he blind? Can he not see how useless I would be for the task?" he held up his arm to Rhys.

Rhys frowned. "You know you're not useless."

Ronan rolled his eyes and stared away into the forest, a bored look overcoming his face. "Don't patronize me. I know what I am good for and it's nothing."

"You keep saying that and it will be true."

"Just go away."

"What happened to you, Ronan? You never used to let anything get you down. You always used to push yourself harder than everyone else. You never let an injury or sickness get to you. You never _whined_." Rhys asked with concern. With a slight smile, he curved his fist through the air. "Suck it up, right?"

Ronan calmly turned his gaze back to Rhys. Brushing a strand of hair out of his line of vision, he then grabbed hold of the ground next to him, gathering up a few broken twigs. With a chuckle, he threw the twigs at Rhys. Rhys swatted the twigs away effortlessly.

"_Halla_ turd." Ronan spat out. "You never know when to quit."

"It's what you would tell me." Rhys replied, cracking a smile.

"I don't care. Leave me be."

Rhys sighed. "You need a woman."

Ronan closed his eyes and shook his head. An image of a woman flashed through his mind briefly before he shoved it away. _She_ was forbidden. It could never be.

And why wouldn't Rhys just leave him alone? Rhys didn't know anything about him. They had been inseparable growing up, but all that had changed when Rhys went off and married Eleri. He had no right anymore to tell him what he needed.

"You need to get a life and stop trying to fix mine, as if you knew me still." Ronan declared angrily.

"I have a life. A good life and one which you saved when you drove off the slavers and rescued everybody." Rhys retorted, not unkindly.

"Not everybody." Ronan grumbled, thinking of the few hunters they had lost in the fight.

"It could have been a lot worse if you and the Grey Wardens had not come when you did. The clan could have been sold into slavery. The clan could have been just me and a few others. Stop punishing yourself. It's not like you." Rhys said.

"Mythal help you, for if you don't leave me be I will sick Ash onto you." Ronan threatened. He was getting terribly impatient. Rhys didn't know him. Nobody did.

"Alright, alright." Rhys relented, arising from the ground. "I'll leave you be. But don't keep your father waiting too long. You know how he gets..."

"Just go." Ronan protested sternly, and petted Ash as a warning. Rhys finally left, but Ronan didn't feel any better. The stupid lout had given him a lot to think about. Now he would never fall back into slumber with all these thoughts running through his head. Grumbling, he sat up and reluctantly made his way back to the village.

...

Brenna fingered the pouch at her waist. In it were two precious things; the necklace and the letter. She reached into it, dragging out the letter, which she unfolded and read over and over again. He wanted her at Vigil's Keep. It was a nice feeling. Siofra sat by her then and she quickly refolded the letter and shoved it into her pouch.

"I cannot read. There is no need to hide it from me." Siofra chided gently.

"You must think me a fool, staring at this thing all the time." Brenna said, a little embarrassed.

Siofra smiled and then leaned over closer to whisper conspiratorially. "I think it's sweet. My son writing you a letter that you cherish so much."

Brenna turned to Siofra, shaking her head, her raven coloured hair whipping her face. "On another note, I think it is time I leave for home."

"So soon?" Siofra asked, surprised. "I only just got here."

"I don't belong here..." Brenna replied. This was her father's clan, but try as she might, she just couldn't fit in. She had helped the clan, like Tristan had asked. But they didn't need her anymore. Loki made a commotion at that moment on the other side of the village, barking and wrestling a stick away from a Dalish child. "And neither does Loki."

Siofra shook her head. "You are welcome here."

"I need to go, anyway." Brenna said. She hadn't mentioned anything about her parentage to anyone. She didn't want anyone, especially Siofra, to treat her differently, bad or good, for being an elf-blooded human. She knew it was taboo among the Dalish. But Siofra, she would understand. It was because of her that she existed, for her father never would have loved her mother if Siofra had never dallied with Tristan's father. But Brenna could not bring herself to say the words; _I am the daughter of Alras and Adalia_. It wasn't important anyhow.

"I suppose I cannot change your mind." Siofra said sadly. She patted Brenna's hand. "You are a good woman. You remind me so much of somebody I once knew; a kind gentlewoman."

Brenna stiffened. Surely she didn't mean her mother?

"And your eyes, they are so beautiful. They remind me also of somebody long gone." Siofra continued, sighing. "Ah, don't mind me. I have been so close to death for so long it is odd to feel so renewed again. I guess this rejuvenation causes me to remember the people of my past who are no longer here."

Brenna winced. "I prefer to look forward in life."

Siofra chuckled. "Well, when you are young I suppose that is all you can do. You have a bright future. When you're old like me, perhaps your thoughts will turn to the past."

"You are not so old. I am not exactly a spring chicken. And we'll see."

At that moment Ronan came lazily trudging through the camp. He wore a scowl on his face as he paused before his mother, ignoring Brenna altogether. Brenna, for her part, did not let Ronan get to her. He had barely said anything to her since he returned and mostly stayed out of the village, prowling the forest by himself. She assumed it had to do with his injury. Whenever he did turn his attention to her, she smiled and was polite, usually for naught. She could see why Tristan and he did not really get along, but she wasn't going to judge him without knowing him too well. Ronan did, however, sometimes remind her of Tristan, like now, with his moping look about him. It sent a short pang to her chest.

"Where is father?" he asked Siofra with clear impatience.

"He is at the northern edge of the forest." Siofra replied, calmly craning her neck towards the north.

Keeping a watchful and suspicious eye on Loki in the distance, Ronan continued on his way, dragging his feet along the ground as if he were chained to a boulder, forcing his way forward, step by dreadful step.

When he was out of hearing, Siofra stood up. "I worry about him."

Brenna stood up too and placed a comforting hand on Siofra's shoulder. "He needs time to face this change. It cannot be easy for him."

"He was always so lively, so brash. Now he just mopes around if he isn't off by himself. I wish I could do something for him. I am his mother. I should be able to make it better for him." Siofra remarked sadly.

"Maybe you can." Brenna said, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" Siofra asked her.

"When the snows melt, send him to my home. He can escort me to Vigil's Keep."

"Oh, I don't think seeing Tristan would help..."

"Tristan? No. But I suspect there is another Grey Warden there that he would be happy to see again." Brenna replied thoughtfully. She had spent little time in the company of Ronan and Melisende, but from what she had seen... Melisende might be a tonic for his blues.

Siofra looked to the sky in thought. "The woman, Melisende? You know, I think that might be a good idea. It is worth a try. But I don't want him to think I am pushing him away. I will have to go about it in a clever way. I don't want him to feel like this is a pity duty."

"Oh, I think you can manage that Siofra. And if the end destination is no help at all, perhaps the journey itself will renew him. It will, at the least, give him time to reflect." Brenna remarked.

"You are wise beyond your years." Siofra said, watching Brenna intently.

Brenna shrugged. She wouldn't say that about herself. All she wanted to do was help. In any case, she had to leave the village before the dead of winter. Otherwise, it would be too difficult to return home.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Winter had not lasted long, but that was no balm to anyone in the Keep. The early spring had not put an end to the interesting winter. Clotilde and the man with her, Marcel, as Melisende eventually learned his name, had kept mostly to themselves, avoiding direct conflict, whispering in the Orlesian tongue. If Melisende didn't know any better, she might think that they were spies. But they weren't. They were just a pair of Orlesian Grey Wardens who had not given their reasons for being at the Keep. Clotilde still insisted on giving orders every now and again, annoying everyone to no end, but the Wardens would go straight to Tristan, who would countermand her orders. And so it went all winter, nothing coming to a head, but the tension slowly mounting, like a kettle boiling slowly over a fire. Direct challenge was brewing.

The Wardens were out in the courtyard getting ready to spar, to remove the rust that had settled over them during the winter. It would be a busy spring with Tristan planning roving expeditions around Ferelden, to root out any remaining darkspawn.

Melisende stretched along a fence with an affectionate Ser-Pounce-A-Lot meandering along the railing, looking up at her, letting out a little meow. He wanted to be petted and let Melisende know by pushing the top of his head into her arm aggressively.

"Pounce, I'm busy right now," she told the cat. Even so, she couldn't resist the little thing. She gave the cat a quick rub on the back, his back arching up to meet her hand. But that wasn't enough. The pushy cat tried to force her to give him another pat by quickly turning around and pushing his head into her hand again. She obliged, but only this last time. "You are an attention whore."

Sammy sat on the fence near her at that moment. He tilted his head sideways and looked at Melisende questioningly. "What's a whore?"

_Oh Maker_, she thought as she desperately looked around for Nathaniel. He was busy stringing his bow and chatting with Sigrun. Melisende frowned. Why did she have to open her big mouth and talk to a cat? Nathaniel could explain this better than she could. She picked up Ser-Pounce-A-Lot and placed him in Sammy's arm. "A whore is not a word children use."

"But you called Pounce a whore. What does it mean?" Sammy pushed.

Melisende sighed as she picked up her swords. "I called him an _attention_ whore."

"So does it just mean that he wants people's attention? Because he sure has been lonely since Anders left. I wonder why Anders didn't bring Pounce with him." Sammy stroked Ser-Pounce-A-Lot fondly. Melisende sat near Sammy and then planted her swords into the thawing ground. She didn't know if Sammy truly understood why Anders left. To be fair, she didn't even really know. But there was a large emptiness in the Keep since he and Justice had gone. Surely, Sammy could feel it too. She supposed it was worse when she and Tristan had been away as well. Sammy might have thought they were also never coming back again.

"Sometimes people just need a change of scenery." Melisende said.

"Like Tristan? Do you think Anders will come back?" Sammy asked hopefully. "I miss him."

Melisende doubted Anders would come back. Especially because of the way he left. "We all miss him. Only Anders himself knows what will happen though."

Sammy frowned thoughtfully. "I don't miss Justice though. He was creepy and scary looking. He always told me to follow the rules."

Melisende chuckled. She couldn't help but agree with Sammy on that point, though she would never admit it out loud. Justice was weird and creepy, but only because he inhabited a corpse. She hadn't gotten to know the spirit very well, at least not as well as she had gotten to know Anders. It had been much easier to relate to a human than with a spirit.

Sammy, with the help of Nathaniel, had gotten a position in the Keep's kitchens while she was away, because Clotilde had not tolerated the presence of "bratty orphans" in a Keep meant for soldiers and Grey Wardens. The boy always made time to come out and watch the sparring, and insisted almost every time on practicing with everyone, much to the chagrin of the cook.

"Don't worry Pounce; I'll take care of you." Sammy said quietly to the orange cat. Melisende smiled and ruffled Sammy's blonde mop of hair, which drew a frown upon the boy's face.

Standing up, Melisende then grabbed hold of her swords again and looked around the courtyard. She was ready to practice. Her companions, however, all seemed a bit occupied at the moment. Oghren was gesturing rather crudely to Tristan, while Velanna looked on in disgust. Meanwhile, Nathaniel was showing something about his bow to Sigrun. However, the new Warden, Madoc, caught her gaze and walked over to her. He was quite good with daggers, but he was shy and so didn't show off as much as he could have.

"Need a partner?" he asked Melisende timidly.

Looking over the sharp blades in her hands, she placed them aside. Practice was not the place for real blades. "Wooden swords?"

Madoc nodded.

"Sammy, fetch us some practice swords." Melisende turned to the boy. Excited now, he jumped off the fence, causing Pounce to run off, and quickly made his way over to the pile of wooden weapons. That was when Clotilde and Marcel appeared at the edge of the courtyard.

"Oh great, the Queen of Orlais has decided to grace us with her presence. It was turning out to be such a beautiful day, too." Melisende remarked to Madoc.

"I believe they have an Empress in Orlais," said Madoc with a roguish smile.

"Right. They're even too good to have just a queen." Melisende replied.

Sammy had grabbed hold of a couple of wooden swords and darted toward Melisende, nearly stumbling into Clotilde in the process. Clotilde ignored the boy, but made a big show of unsheathing her sword and mounting her shield. She circled Marcel, who brandished a great axe. With a great clang of steel meeting steel, the two Orlesians began sparring, garnering the attention of the other Wardens.

"Practicing with real weapons? They must really trust each other." Madoc wondered aloud.

"That or they are complete idiots." Melisende replied, turning away from the Orlesians. "Shall we?"

Madoc nodded, accepting a pair of practice swords from Sammy. Once Melisende received her own pair the two began to spar. They started out slowly, assessing each other. Melisende had never sparred with Madoc before, but she had seen and noticed how quick he was. He might even be swifter on his feet than she was. With that in mind, she circled him warily, throwing a couple of strikes his way. He countered them faster than she thought. They picked up speed, dealing each other blows and countering, nobody getting the upper hand yet.

Melisende and Madoc made their way to the center of the courtyard, unaware of their surroundings. Their minds were concentrated on the practice duel and nothing else. Madoc came at Melisende with a wide swing. She stepped back to dodge the incoming attack and to her surprise bumped right into a suit of plate mail. Her concentration broken, she turned around. _Clotilde_.

Clotilde glared at her. "Ferelden cur," she said, spitting on the ground near Melisende's feet.

Melisende sucked in her breath. She threw her wooden swords onto the ground and walked closer to Clotilde. Behind Clotilde, she caught a glimpse of Nathaniel and Tristan. Nathaniel gave her a look of warning and Tristan was shaking his head calmly. They knew what she was up to. But there was no way she was going to let that slight go.

"A Ferelden cur?" Melisende asked angrily. "Do you want to see how much hurt a Ferelden _cur_ could inflict on an Orlesian _bitch_?"

Clotilde regarded Melisende with calm disdain.

"I challenge you to a duel, first blood if you're not too frightened." Melisende continued. _Come on, accept. _

Tristan stalked into the middle of the courtyard. "Oh no. You are both _Grey Wardens_. I am not letting you two fight to first blood..."

"Tristan, I know what I am doing." Melisende interrupted without taking her gaze away from Clotilde. "Move away. My honour is at stake here."

Finally, Clotilde spoke up. "I'd rather not maim you uselessly, Cousland, for Ferelden needs what little Wardens it has." Clutching her sword she backed away slowly and stood ready.

"Fine, first to fall on their ass then." Melisende suggested.

"Alright Cousland," Clotilde raised her sword. "Show me what you're made of."

Melisende wandered over to where she had placed her real swords and gathered them up. As she walked back to the center, she saw the other Wardens looking at her proudly, except for Tristan, and Nathaniel. Nathaniel seemed annoyed and stood with his arms crossed. She gave him a quick and reassuring smile and then entered the duel.

Melisende and Clotilde battled fiercely. Nathaniel needn't have worried for her at all, she thought as she blocked or evaded every one of Clotilde's hacking swings. Melisende was quick and she was confident that would win her the duel. She enjoyed the furiously frustrated look on Clotilde's face as she got away time after time. Melisende's only problem was how to knock someone in heavy plate mail down.

As the duel went on, Melisende herself became frustrated. She didn't seem to be getting any closer to knocking down Clotilde. And Clotilde had a shield which she thrust violently toward her every now and then in hopes of pounding her down. Melisende could only evade these thrusts for so long before she grew tired. Clotilde even seemed to become swifter as the duel went on, going against all rules of nature and plate mail. Melisende wore only a leather cuirass for protection which should have given her the upper hand, but things evened out as the battle wore on.

_Maker, help me strike down this woman_. Melisende could feel her arms and legs tiring. The only thing that made her feel better was the fact that Clotilde also seemed to be tiring out as well.

Melisende blocked out the cheers of her companions and concentrated on knocking down the woman who had insulted her, who continued to insult everyone with her presence at the Keep. She needed to knock her down. She needed to prove that Ferelden's Wardens were just as good, if not better, than Orlesian Wardens. In reality, they shouldn't even be concerned about such a trifle as this. Grey Wardens were Grey Wardens. They were not supposed to be Ferelden, or Orlesian, or Antivan, or whatever. But Clotilde had brought it to this. It was her fault, nobody else's.

Melisende twirled around and brought her swords crashing onto Clotilde's sword, striking it down into the ground. With a relieved smile, Melisende rushed at Clotilde, intending to smite the woman into the ground. But that never happened. Instead, Melisende felt a painful tug on her head as Clotilde had grabbed a hold of her ponytail, yanking her to the side. Then she felt Clotilde's shield bash her in the ribs, throwing her onto the ground.

"That is why women should not wear their hair long in a fight." Clotilde said wickedly.

Melisende rubbed her scalp and clutched at her ribs in disbelief. She looked up at Clotilde, her anger multiplying by the second. She felt Nathaniel's hand upon her shoulder. He helped her up, holding onto her arm, keeping her back.

"It's not worth it, spitfire," Nathaniel whispered into her ear.

But Melisende would not be calmed down. She had been insulted, again. She pointed a sword accusingly at Clotilde. "She cheated. Did everyone see that?"

Clotilde's lips curled in distaste. Melisende struggled to break free of Nathaniel's grip.

"The terms of the duel did not mention anything about hair pulling." Marcel snickered.

"That was dirty!" Melisende protested.

Tristan forced his way in between the two women. "My patience is at an end. Speak with me now. Tell me your purpose or I will have you thrown out of the Keep." Tristan threatened.

"You wouldn't dare." Clotilde replied challengingly.

"Do you want to take that chance?" Tristan retorted, narrowing his eyes toward Clotilde.

Clotilde looked to Marcel, who shrugged. She sheathed her sword. "You know, I have grown weary of this country and its dreadful stench. Perhaps it is time we talk."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Tristan made his way into the Keep, not looking back to see if Clotilde was following him. He didn't need to, for her footsteps pounded loudly behind him. She seemed to be just as angry as he was. He made his way into a small room with a desk and chair, where Woolsey calculated the Keep's finances. He turned around to see not only Clotilde but Marcel in the room. He didn't like this. Tristan wanted a one on one discussion.

"He doesn't need to be here." Tristan pointed at Marcel.

"This is as much Marcel's duty as it is mine. He stays." Clotilde said sternly, crossing her arms over her chest in defence of Marcel.

"Fine. Whatever. Get on with it now." Tristan's annoyance was barely concealed.

Clotilde motioned for him to take a seat. Angrily, Tristan did as she said. If it would make her speak then he would do it. He wanted her to leave the Keep as soon as possible. Order needed to be restored. _His_ order.

"I gather that you have already surmised that we have been sent by the First Warden himself." Clotilde said rather smugly.

"The First Warden himself? I knew your coming here had to do with me, but I didn't think the order came from that high up." Tristan retorted.

"Don't think because he is far away in the Anderfels that the situation in Ferelden has gone unnoticed. There are many things he has sent us to investigate and your name is there at every turn, _Hero_."

"Please, don't leave me in suspense any longer," Tristan remarked sarcastically. "Tell me what you think I have done."

"Grey Wardens do not get involved in political disputes." Clotilde declared.

Tristan crossed his arms. "And your point is?"

"Marcel, tell him what he has done."

"During the Blight, amongst other misguided actions, you got mired in the politics of Orzammar, putting Prince Bhelen on his father's throne, backing him in the name of the Grey Wardens. You also got mixed up in the policy of the Circle of Magi, supporting the mages against the Templars, who had the right to annul the Circle." Marcel explained smugly.

Tristan hadn't actually backed Bhelen in the name of the Grey Wardens. It was him, yes, that decided who got the crown, but it was technically from the mouth of a Paragon. Tristan's patience had been at an end by the time they had reached Orzammar. Neither of the two factions had wanted to speak with him. Both had sent him on wild goose chases. He had publicly supported Harrowmount while secretly dealing with Bhelen. He had felt bad when Bhelen killed Harrowmont, but what was he to do? Bhelen was the son of the former king. He had needed an army and Bhelen was a sterner leader than Harrowmont. As for the Circle Tower business, well, he hadn't been about to let the Templars destroy his former home for a handful of evil mages.

"Misguided? All of that was necessary to fulfill the treaties. Without all that, I would not have had an army at my back when I fought the darkspawn and the archdemon." Tristan defended himself.

"You also decided the leadership of Ferelden, putting a Grey Warden on the throne and then taking the Arling of Amaranthine for yourself." Clotilde cut in.

"Amaranthine isn't for _me_. It is for the Grey Wardens. I fully intend to hand it back over..."

"When?" Clotilde cut him off.

"I don't know."

"And the rest, what say you to that?" Clotilde pressed on. "The last time a Warden Commander thought them self entitled to the crown of Ferelden, the order was exiled from Ferelden for 200 years, severely weakening Ferelden for the Fifth Blight."

"Alistair is not Sophia Dryden. He didn't _think_ he was entitled to the throne; he was, even if he hated to admit it. He is Maric's son. Alistair certainly isn't going to exile the Grey Wardens from his kingdom. If anything, you should be thanking me for regaining a permanent foothold here for the order." Tristan retorted. "And I definitely do not want to be Arl or Bann or whatever you think it is that I want. Besides, it was a Blight, the Fifth Blight as you mentioned. I did what had to be done to stop it, including avoiding a civil war. Whatever it takes, right?"

Clotilde snorted in disgust.

"Rumour has it that the First Warden himself is too busy to issue orders to the Wardens because he himself is embroiled in the politics of the Anderfels. So, really, Clotilde, I don't see how you can fault me for doing exactly as the First Warden does. It was a survival tactic, nothing more."

Clotilde regarded him contemptuously, but Tristan detected a trace of agreement in the tilt of her head, though she said nothing to his words.

"Even after all you have said, it still does not look good for the order that a Warden is king." Marcel said.

"You weren't there. Maybe if Orlais hadn't been so pigheaded and cowardly, and had come to Ferelden in time, that wouldn't have happened."

Clotilde slammed her heavily gauntleted fist onto the table, nearly cracking it in two. "How dare you speak of Orlais in that manner..."

Marcel pulled her to the side, whispering something, in Orlesian no doubt, for Tristan could not understand a word of what was being said. But he was grateful, for it seemed to calm Clotilde down. He just wanted this interrogation to be over with. He didn't see the point of it so far. None of what they were accusing him of made sense.

"I did what I had to do." Tristan repeated.

"And you should be dead." Clotilde spat out angrily.

There it was. He was expecting this; it was no surprise to him. "But I am alive and the First Warden sent you to find out why. Am I right?"

Clotilde narrowed her eyes, her nostrils flared as she fought for control. "The Architect, the Mother. You killed the latter, not the former, why?"

Changing the subject? That was odd. She wanted to be in control, no doubt. "Again, you were not there. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The Architect helps me kill the Mother, I let him go. He agrees to keep the darkspawn in check, severing them from the Old Gods, possibly preventing a future Blight. I gave him my word."

"His plans..." Clotilde began.

Impatient now, Tristan interrupted Clotilde before she could say anything further. "It is quiet at the moment, isn't it? He kept his word."

"For how long? How do you know what he is really up to down there? How could you make a deal with one of _them_?" Marcel cut in.

"If he goes back on his word, I will kill him. Problem solved."

"After countless damages may already have been done?" Clotilde questioned him.

"Just get to the point already. I am sick of this interrogation. I am Commander, I commanded. No other Wardens cared what happened in Ferelden until now."

Clotilde walked around slowly in contemplation. Tristan clutched his forehead and closed his eyes. His head was throbbing in pain again. _For the love of the Maker, just get on with it_.

"You may think me harsh, but I too am only doing my duty. I get it. You did whatever was needed to end the Blight. In that sense we are more alike than you think."

Tristan grunted. _I doubt that_.

"But that is where our similarities end." Clotilde continued. "I became a Grey Warden because I wanted to. You became a Grey Warden because you had to, because Duncan was in the right place at the right time. You have run away from your duties at least once. I would _never_ abandon the Grey Wardens."

"At least once?" Tristan mocked. She seemed to know a lot about him. Tristan wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"You are alive when you should be dead. Something about this fact suggests to me a derelict of duty." Clotilde stated menacingly.

"The archdemon is dead, the Blight ended, was that not my duty?"

"Enough with the run around," said Clotilde with impatience. "What did you do? Why are you still sitting here before me? What makes you slaying Urthemiel different from Garahel slaying Andoral? Why would you survive and not he?"

"So this is the reason you are here. Not the other stuff. This is why the First Warden sent you? He couldn't send an army, he couldn't send any aid during the Blight, but when one of his Wardens acts out of place as you seem to suggest I have done..."

"Shut up." Marcel interrupted yet again. "You know the reason we couldn't help. Loghain..."

Tristan laughed. "Yes, big bad Loghain Mac Tir. The Wardens sure didn't do everything and anything to end a Blight," he sarcastically replied. His smirk quickly turned into a frown of frustration. "It seems to me that I am the only one that did anything 'right', despite not knowing half a pint of how to _be_ a Warden. Why don't you tell _that_ to the First Warden?"

"Enough! Tell me now or tell the First Warden himself later." Clotilde threatened.

Tristan sighed. He had just about enough with these two. And the ritual? The damned thing was creeping up on him from every corner. _Morrigan_, he thought with contempt. He would tell these two what they wanted. He didn't care what they would think. They hadn't been there. They hadn't been torn into pieces trying to decide the right thing to do.

"I made a deal with a Witch of the Wilds, the daughter of Flemeth. I gave her a son, a vessel for the essence of the Old God; she gave me my life, Alistair's life, and Melisende's life." Tristan spat out finally. There, they knew what he had done now. Let them do what they wanted with that information.

"What? Don't play games with us. This is not the time for child's tales." Marcel said in disbelief. "A Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth's daughter. Were the griffons raised from the dead as well?" Marcel looked at Clotilde to back him up, but she was busy fingering her chin, deep in thought. Tristan stared back at them seriously. Clotilde finally turned to her companion.

"He is telling the truth, Marcel. He is an even bigger fool than I thought," she said.

"Fuck you." Tristan angrily, but calmly and quietly said. He'd never been this rude or crude before, but all patience had fled him. These two Wardens were flinging accusations at him from left and right. They had no right to judge him. He could have just run away from Ferelden and abandoned it to the Blight, letting it spread to their precious Orlais. Then, _then_, they would have sent help. But that was not what he had done. He had stuck around and done what needed to be done.

"Do not curse at me," Clotilde wagged a finger toward him. "You have brought evil upon Thedas."

"I did nothing wrong, nothing that cannot be remedied should the worst come to pass..."

"Don't waste your breath trying to convince me. The First Warden will see you and deal with you and all of your stupidity. We'll see then if your silver tongue can save you." Clotilde threatened.

"Fine, when do we leave?" Tristan retorted.

"King Alistair and Cousland will answer for this as well." Clotilde goaded his fury further.

Tristan pointed a finger at her. "They had nothing to do with this. They had no knowledge of what happened. Do not drag them into this. This is my mess and my mess alone. I alone will answer to the First Warden for this."

"Ready yourself then. We leave soon." Marcel said.

Clotilde walked closer to Tristan, leaning over his chair, getting in his face. "The First Warden will see that you do not deserve to be a Warden. You will be sent back to rot in the Circle Tower like you deserve."

Tristan would have gladly punched her then, but he restrained himself. What was her problem? What did he ever do to her? They were supposed to be allies, weren't they? He didn't know what to think of her. He knew only that she looked upon him with open disdain.

"We'll see, _bitch_." Tristan replied. With those final words, he arose violently from the chair, sending it crashing to the floor. With heavy feet, he stalked out of the room, before his anger got the better of him. Before he showed these Orlesians what the Hero of Ferelden, what a mage could do.

"We didn't say he could leave." Marcel remarked to Clotilde.

"Let him. But Marcel, _surveillez le fugueur_," she looked to Marcel, an intense smirk transforming her mouth. "He's been known to run before. We cannot take that chance."

"Of course." Marcel left the room to quietly follow Tristan and make sure he did not run before they could arrange passage to Val Royeaux.

Clotilde went over to the chair Tristan had knocked over in his angry haste to get out of the room and carefully lifted it back on its feet. She took a seat in it, pondering what had transpired. That pisspot mage had risen high, even if it were in a backwater country such as Ferelden. Herself, she was stuck taking orders from her own commander in Orlais, stuck being sent on errands any lowbred peasant could do. She was not even going to be allowed to see this through to Weisshaupt, for all she had threatened Tristan. Once she reached Orlais, someone else would take over the journey. No, none of this was fair. Her Commander had better give her a promotion for this.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"The Keep is not far off now. We should be there soon."

Brenna had never been to Vigil's Keep before. So when Ronan had finally strung more than two words together to inform her of its closeness, she said a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. The journey had been unpleasant though the weather had been great. It was Ronan that had soured the mood.

"Let's take a break then." Brenna suggested.

Ronan shrugged, but flung himself under the nearest tree. He was going to ignore her again. Travelling on the road, Brenna had tried to get him to talk but Ronan had mostly ignored her. So she had given up. She wasn't going to keep trying if the result was always the same. She would go insane. Instead, she took a seat on a rock, warmed nicely by the sunshine. Loki padded his way to her, sitting and leaning against her. She gave the hound a rub behind the ears. She caught Ronan's narrow eyed gaze. Brenna cracked a smile for Ronan. He frowned even harder. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she reached into her pouch. She couldn't help herself, she took out the letter.

Tristan thought of her as a friend, but Brenna was sure there was more to his letter than he let on. He said they had a connection. That had to mean something, right? All winter she had tried not to think too much about what would happen once she got to Vigil's Keep, for she didn't want to build herself up only to be disappointed. It was possible that he did only think of her as a friend... but then there was that kiss. She had brushed him off then, suddenly afraid. She wanted more than just a romp in between the bed sheets.

"The way you look at that piece of paper is sickening." Ronan's irritation broke through her thoughts. She folded the paper and placed it back in her pouch.

"Why is that?"

"Because it is. You and my brother. It sickens me." Ronan explained.

Brenna couldn't help but laugh. Ronan didn't know what he was talking about. There was nothing between her and Tristan, yet. "Because you have no one?"

Ronan grinned. "No, because Tristan is a jerk."

"You don't even know him."

"I know enough to know that he is a jerk." Ronan said.

"After all he has done for your clan, for you?" Brenna asked incredulously.

"Bah. That's about the only good thing he has done." Ronan replied, turning his gaze away from Brenna.

"I don't understand you. This rivalry you have with Tristan, I thought it had disappeared when you found your mother."

"It only just began when my mother awoke. She is the only thing that keeps us in each other's lives. Without her, I wouldn't bother with him, a _shem_."

Brenna shook her head. "He shares your blood."

"Stop defending him."

"Stop acting childish. You finally say more than two words to me and it is to whine about your brother." Brenna patted Loki on the head. He whimpered.

"I just don't get why everyone loves him. He treats people horribly. You can't possibly like him. You are too nice." Ronan glared at the hound. He seemed annoyed.

Brenna was surprised. Was he being nice to her? "Ronan... just stop."

But he didn't stop. He seemed to be in love with his own voice at the moment. "The people of Gwaren call you a harlot. Maybe you do belong with Tristan. The harlot and the fool."

No, he wasn't being nice. He was just being Ronan, insufferable and mystifying all at once. If Brenna had a little brother, she imagined he might be something like Ronan. "I don't give my love away as freely as people may think. Yes, I flirt like crazy, but that is business. The business of my heart, of my body, few have dealt with that."

"They see a beautiful, confident woman and automatically she is a harlot. How cruel your world is." Ronan said thoughtfully after a moment.

Brenna couldn't think of anything more to say. He was almost being nice to her, all the while he was spitting out cruel nonsense. She didn't think she would ever understand Ronan. She smiled at him. She wouldn't hold his obvious frustration against him. He shrugged and turned away, resting his eyes.

...

Ronan took the lead, in a hurry to reach the Keep. He knew his mother had sent him away to escort Brenna in pity. She probably hoped it would lift the dark shadows from his mood. Well, he would show her. He wasn't going to stop at the Keep. He was going to continue on. There was nothing for him at the Keep, and there was nothing left for him with the clan. He never thought it could happen, but he was leaving his clan. He didn't feel any relief, but it had to be done.

Loki sidled up to him, brushing by his leg. Ronan tensed and clutched fervently at his sword hilt. He paused in his tracks and looked back at Brenna. "Keep this mutt away from me."

Brenna whistled and called out to Loki. The dog barked and ran to her excitedly. Satisfied, Ronan turned his back on them and continued walking.

"Why are you afraid of mabaris?" Brenna's voice rang out from behind him.

Ronan let out a long breath of frustration. "I don't fear these mutts."

"Really? Because it looks that way all the time." Brenna said as she caught up to him and walked by his side. "I don't understand; you have a pet wolf. Wolves are much scarier than mabaris. Why do you fear mabaris?"

"It's not fear. It's hate." Ronan barked, sending Brenna a warning glare. "Ash is not a pet, he's a companion. He does what he wants."

"And he always comes back to your side when you need him." Brenna remarked with a smile. "How sweet."

"Bah." Ronan grunted, rolling his eyes. This woman was getting on his nerves. He wished Ash were around, so he could sick the wolf, not on her, but on the mabari. Force a final showdown between the two. But Ash had stayed behind. The wolf seemed to know his plans and had melted into the forest with one last look at Ronan before he melted into the shadows.

"Did something happen to you, with mabaris?" Brenna pushed. "There must be a reason why you hate them so much. Loki is such a good natured hound. He would never hurt a fly, unless you told him to."

"You like to prod woman." Ronan muttered.

"If I care about someone, I prod."

"And why would you care for me?" Ronan regarded Brenna askance. She was very tiresome. Always trying to get him to talk, always looking at him and his one hand with pity.

"Why not?" she replied.

Ronan sighed and shook his head. "If you must know..." Maybe this would shut her up for the rest of the journey. He thought of that day, when he was a child. He had wandered deep into the forest with Rhys. How much should he tell Brenna? "When I was a child, Rhys and I were lost deep in the forest. We had been gone for a few days."

They had known their clan would be worried about them, but they were too curious to stop. They went further and further into the forest. "We came upon a group of humans. They had a mabari with them."

He and Rhys had been frightened, remembering the tales of humans the _hahren _had told them. Tales in which humans captured elven children and fed them to dragons. "We turned back, but the mabari had noticed us." They had made noise as they retreated; the cracking of a twig, the rustling of leaves. "The mabari charged after us. It chased us through the forest like a demon hound chasing hares."

They had been swift, but the mabari quickly caught up with them. Rhys had scrambled up a tree, Ronan had followed. "We couldn't run anymore, so I climbed up a tree after Rhys, but the mabari caught up. It jumped at me, clawing my back, grabbing hold of my leg in its jaws, pulling me down hard onto the ground."

Ronan paused and stole a look at Brenna. She listened intently, stroking Loki's head absentmindedly. Ronan closed his eyes, recalling the last part of the memory. All he remembered were Rhys's screams as the mabari slashed at his back, the pain of the claws ripping flesh off of his back, and his desperate attempt to crawl away. "The mabari would have killed me, but for some reason, Mythal had seen fit to rescue me that day. My grandfather Theron, my father, and Rhys's father came upon us then. They killed the mabari." Ronan could still feel the hound's warm blood running down his back, mingling with his own. He shuddered.

Silas had been furious at the sight of Ronan's bloodied and mangled back. He had wanted to seek out the humans and kill them in revenge, but Theron had urged him to calm and they returned to the village. His father had cursed him for a fool and said he would have given him a sound beating if he wasn't already so battered. But Siofra only comforted him, bathing his wounds. His aunt Neria had been kind to him too. But that hadn't mattered to Ronan. His father's anger and disappointment was the only thing that he was able to focus on. And now he was an even bigger disappointment to his father. He kicked at the ground in frustration. He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"It's no wonder you dislike mabaris so much. But they are not all poorly trained as that." Brenna reassured him.

Ronan brushed off her hand. "I doubt that mabari was poorly trained."

"Well, if you want to talk..."

"Just keep that mutt away from me." Ronan interrupted, glaring at Loki. "And keep this between you and me." Ronan warned gruffly, walking ahead, Vigil's Keep looming in view at long last.

...

Brenna found herself making the last distance to the Keep on her own, with only Loki for company. Ronan had ditched her at the last fork with not so much as an explanation. She didn't even have time to protest. He only pointed down the road to the Keep and then had gone the other way. Surprised, and a little concerned for him she had to admit, she reluctantly continued down the road. He had made his choice clear. There was nothing she could do for him.

At long last, she reached the gates of the Keep. They were open. Loki pawed at the ground under the gate and whined. That caught the attention of the guard, who seemed to have been dozing off in the warm spring sun.

Eyeing the mabari warily, the guard turned his attention to Brenna, examining her closely. "Can I help you?" he asked with a lascivious sneer.

"I am here to see the Commander." Brenna replied.

"What business does a pretty girl like you have with the Commander?"

Brenna sent the guard a coy smile, fluttering her lashes. It was always best to play stupid for in her experience, information would come quicker. Sure enough, the guard tugged at his neck guard.

"Well, sorry to say, but he left not a day ago."

"He left?" Brenna asked, unsure if she had heard correctly.

"Yes, some Grey Warden business."

Brenna could feel her disappointment running through her mind. "When will he return?"

"Let's see... I don't know how long it takes to get to the Anderfels, but it takes double that to return, and that's not counting how long they stay there," the guard replied, scratching his head in thought.

Brenna sighed. She wasn't sure either how long it took to travel to the Anderfels, but certainly, he'd be gone for a long time. She wondered what was in the Anderfels.

"I'm off duty soon..." the guard offered, sensing her disappointment.

Brenna rolled her eyes and turned around. There was no point in staying at Vigil's Keep then. She would go home. She began to walk away, but then remembered Loki. He wasn't her dog. The Wardens might need him. She grabbed hold of his collar and brought him to the guard. "The hound belongs to one of the Wardens, make sure he gets to the Keep?" she asked, smiling sweetly.

"Fine," the guard grumbled, taking hold of Loki's collar.

Brenna turned away again. She heard Loki whimper as she started on the long road home.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Amaranthine was a fortified pig sty. It was full of dirt and smelly _shems_. And most important of all, it was way too near to Vigil's Keep, the home of his brother, his _half_ brother, and her, Melisende. Ronan felt ashamed of his feelings for her. They were unnatural. He was Dalish, _elvhenan_, and she was human. He feared what might happen, or even to think of what might _not_ happen, if he saw her again. His mother had loved a _shem _once, but he did not have to follow in her footsteps.

Ronan tried to direct his mind elsewhere. It wouldn't do him any good to think of these things. He was going away. To where, he did not know. But the night was dark and conditions perfect for gaining "free" passage. All he had to do was pick a ship from the crowded docks and he would be away. Earlier scouting had revealed to him at least three possible vessels which were scheduled to leave the next day. One was going to Rivain, one to the Free Marches, and another to Orlais. Which was which, however, he could not tell in the dark. It didn't matter to him in the least anyway. He only wanted to be away from Ferelden.

Ronan walked stealthily along the docks, a hooded cloak leaving his face in shadows, his grandfather's sword at his back. The first ship was too busy. Men were loading up crates and supplies even at this late hour. He might be able to blend in to the crowd and get onto that ship, but he decided to take a look at the other two.

The next one was guarded, and the guards didn't look sleepy at all. A few months ago, he might have been able to just climb onto a ship, but that was nearly impossible now with just one hand to pull his weight. Frustrated, Ronan moved on to the last ship.

This ship was utterly deserted. It would be very easy for Ronan to walk onto the ship and find his "free" passage. "Fen'Harel, are you trying to trick me?" he asked as he stood in front of the ship, which was rocking lightly. He walked to the end of the wharf, which reached far out into the Amaranthine Ocean in order to accommodate large ships. The gangplank was down, seeming to invite Ronan in. Narrowing his eyes in suspicion Ronan stood at the end of the wharf, wondering what to do. This really was too easy. Perhaps it was a trick of Fen'Harel. Perhaps the ship was inviting him in, only to invite him to disaster. Maybe the ship would sink. Or maybe it was destiny.

"Bah, stop thinking like a child," he chastised himself. He would take this stroke of good luck. He would board the ship and hide away, receiving a free ride. He didn't after all, have any coin. He was Dalish. Dalish didn't need coin.

Ronan boarded the ship quietly. Just because it was deserted didn't mean he could forego all stealth. He walked around, taking in his surroundings. It looked mostly like a passenger ship. There were a few crates in the back of the ship. That might be a good hiding spot. He certainly didn't want to hide below decks. If this ship _were_ to sink, he wanted a chance to swim away. He shook his head, frustrated at his pessimism, and then made his way to the crates. There was a space in between them in which he could fit in. It might not be comfortable, but he could always come out at night and blend in the shadows. He was good at that. He squeezed into the spot and sat down.

That was when his thoughts ran wild. The last time he was on a ship was when he had lost a fight... and his hand... to a Qunari mercenary. Oh what he would give to go back to that moment. To change what had happened. If he could only redo that moment, he wouldn't be on this ship. He wouldn't be leaving his clan. The shame of that moment cut through his heart. He hadn't even been able to take vengeance on the monster. He stared at his arm with no hand, and cursed. Perhaps Tristan should have just let him die. It would have been more honourable to die fighting to save his clan rather than end up like this.

Ronan let out a long breath of exasperation. He really needed to get past this. Rhys was right; it wasn't like him to pity himself. He had to suck it up and get on with his life. There was no reason he couldn't still do what he loved – fight with a sword. He just couldn't do it with a shield or for his clan. There was too much pity and disappointment there. He couldn't stand it.

Ronan pushed away his thoughts. He couldn't stand those either. They were driving him insane. He closed his eyes and willed himself to think of something nice. Like every night, an image of Melisende came into his head. Her long brown hair cascaded down her back in waves. Her deep blue eyes narrowed slightly as she smiled warmly, with little dimples framing her full mouth on either side. And though he hated himself for having feelings for a _shem_, he accepted these thoughts. They put his mind at ease, and eventually, sleep came, like it always did.

...

Melisende walked lazily around deck, swinging her amulet in her hand. She was already bored. This would be a terribly long journey. The Anderfels were so far away. First they were headed to Val Royeaux by ship and then they would make the journey overland. She was up for adventure, of course, but she didn't like leaving Nathaniel behind again. But she wasn't about to let Tristan fend for himself. And perhaps that was her problem – she seemed to put her friends above all else. She supposed, however, that it was better than being selfish. She didn't think Nathaniel would love her so much if she were that.

Lost in these thoughts, Melisende swung her amulet out of her hands and it went crashing in between a pile of crates. "Oh, great," she said before walking over to the crates. Crouching down, she felt in between the crates for her amulet, but touched nothing. It must be farther in. The space was narrow, but she could easily fit through. Turning sideways, she shuffled into the space. It was a little dark in between the crates and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the sunlight.

She caught a glimpse of the chain, reached for it, and nearly screamed out loud as she felt a hand press over hers, freezing her movement. It was like all her childhood nightmares come true – a hand grabbing her from the darkness. It was all Fergus's fault. He had hidden under wooden stairs leading to the dungeons of Castle Cousland, knowing Melisende's curiousity would bring her down there. He had grabbed her legs and let out an evil, groaning laugh. She had thought a demon had gotten her and kicked away at his arms before running back up to the castle in fright.

Melisende was not a child anymore. She caught hold of the amulet and pulled her hand away from the stranger's grip. She looked up to see who had startled her, but saw only a hood. "Who's there?" she called out questioningly to the stranger.

"Of all the treachery of the gods..." the figure began to say. Melisende's heart leapt at the sound of his voice.

"Ronan?"

"It is," he replied with a sigh. He removed his hood and Melisende's heart leapt again as he flashed her a smile which lasted about as long as a glimpse of a hummingbird.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him. She wondered why he was not with his clan.

"Hiding in between crates, of course," he replied.

"But, why?" Melisende prodded, frustrated. Why did he have to be so insufferable? But, even so, she had missed him.

"Well, I didn't exactly have the money to pay for passage." Ronan explained.

"Are you crazy? If the crew finds you they will throw you overboard!"

"Perhaps you should keep your voice down then." Ronan warned.

"Fine," Melisende lowered her voice to a whisper, "but tell me, what is going on? What are you doing here?"

"Wanderlust." Ronan spoke quietly in return.

"You? Wanderlust?" Melisende asked in disbelief.

"That's what I said."

"You do know this ship is going to Val Royeaux, right?"

"Is it? That's good to know."

"How were you planning to survive a ship journey? How are you going to eat hiding in between crates for days and days?" Melisende inquired. She didn't understand what Ronan was doing. Had he even thought this through?

"I fasted for five days before my _vallaslin_," Ronan answered with confidence.

"Is that the norm?" Melisende questioned.

"No. I did it to prove to Rhys that I could."

"You starved yourself for five days just to prove a point?"

"Why do you get to ask all the questions?" Ronan retorted, clearly annoyed at this point. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"You say that as if I am a disease." Melisende said, a little hurt by Ronan's attitude.

"If I had known you were on this ship, I would have boarded another." Ronan snapped.

"You've got some nerve talking to me like that. I thought we were friends." Melisende said.

"You said it, _were_ friends." Ronan replied smugly.

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Melisende turned around and left the narrow space between the crates. If she stayed there any longer, she might have yelled very loudly at Ronan, and surely he would have been found by the crew, and as much as she was hurt by his words, she didn't want him to get into trouble.

...

Tristan stood at the edge of the ship, taking in the scene of serenity before him. The waters were calm and glittering in the warm spring sunlight. If he were not on such a serious journey, he might actually appreciate the sight. As it was, he could only resent being dragged away from the Keep and his duties of Warden Commander yet again, though this time it was not of his choosing. He turned his head slightly to the side as Melisende suddenly and stealthily appeared at his side, looking terribly frustrated in the way she stood, clutching at the railing with fierce purpose.

"Your brother." Melisende offered an explanation for her frustration before he could ask.

"My brother?" he asked, confused. Why was she bringing him up? Tristan suddenly got an uneasy feeling, or perhaps it was just the effects of him staring at the water rolling by.

"Yes, your brother, Ronan." Melisende replied. Still, it did nothing to clarify her seething scowl.

"Am I missing something here?" Tristan unconsciously tapped his feet along the edge of the railing. It was something he sometimes did when he was impatient.

Melisende sighed, noticing the gesture. "Ronan is on the ship. He is a stowaway. He apparently has the wanderlust."

"Really?" Tristan remarked, amused. "That is surprising."

Melisende frowned. "What is surprising? That he is on the ship, that he is a stowaway, or that he has the wanderlust?"

"Well, all of that I guess." Tristan replied. "Except maybe the stowaway part; that sounds like him, sneaking around, not thinking things through."

Shaking her head, Melisende continued her rant. "If the crew finds him, they will throw him overboard."

Tristan chuckled. "That is something I would pay to see."

Melisende's frown narrowed into a pout. "I am serious here."

"And so am I." Tristan jested. It really would be hilarious to see his brother being thrown overboard.

Melisende glared at him.

"Look, I am guessing that Ronan would sooner throw himself off the ship out of impatience than get caught by any of the crew." Tristan tried to reassure her. He didn't understand why she was so worried about the lout.

"You're no help at all." Melisende retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Sorry?" Tristan offered. He thought that would be the end of it, but Melisende had other ideas, other rants she felt the need to share.

"I just don't understand him. He was in the vicinity of the Keep but instead of coming to say hello, he goes to Amaranthine and sneaks onto this ship. Then he has the nerve to tell me that he'd rather have boarded another ship if he'd known I'd be on this one." Melisende looked lost in her thoughts. This was clearly annoying her. For his part, Tristan wouldn't have let that lout's words bother him, but he didn't really like his brother all that much. Melisende, on the other hand, seemed to have gotten real close to him.

"Are you really surprised? He's made it clear before that he's no friend to any human." Tristan tried to stop her from worrying.

"But I thought he got past that." Melisende said wistfully.

"I don't see why you're getting so worked up about this. Did you really get that close to him?" Tristan probed, wanting to get to the bottom of this. He didn't want this to plague their whole journey to the Anderfels. To his surprise, Melisende became flustered and avoided his gaze.

"We are friends, or I thought we were. That is all," she explained, still not looking towards him.

"That is all?" Tristan arched his brow in suspicion. "Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?"

Melisende opened her mouth to reply, but only a grumble of frustration came out. Just how close had they gotten? Tristan suddenly felt like ferreting Ronan out from his hiding spot and clobbering him. Melisende was like a sister to him and if Ronan had done anything to her, by the Maker he would not hesitate to teach him a lesson, blood or not. She had been through enough these past few years, and a lot of it was no thanks to him. He wouldn't let his _brother_ cause Melisende any more problems.

"Let me, if you will, give you some advice. You have a good thing going with Nate. Don't ruin it for Ronan. He may be my brother and I may not know him very well, but he doesn't seem the type to play house, especially not with a human. He will only hurt you. It's not worth it." Tristan warned Melisende.

"That is not even the issue here..." Melisende replied, looking offended, too offended. There must have been some truth to what he had said.

"No?" Tristan asked rhetorically. "Could've fooled me."

"Let's just speak of something else." Melisende said, finally returning Tristan's gaze with a hint of a challenge. "How about we talk about you... and Brenna. You two seemed really... chummy."

"Why not?" Tristan answered the challenge, "I'm not afraid of admitting I have feelings for her."

"So soon after Leliana?"

"So soon? It's been long enough. That was over a long time ago, I just couldn't admit it for the longest time. Besides, I haven't acted on those feelings yet." Tristan replied.

"How did you meet Brenna?" Melisende prodded.

"When did this turn into an interrogation?" Tristan asked sarcastically, "Maker knows I've had enough of those lately."

"Oh come on, you tease. I tell you everything about my life."

"You tell me too much." Tristan chuckled. "You treat me as if I was your woman friend."

Melisende playfully punched Tristan in the shoulder.

"Somehow I doubt you would do that to a girlfriend." Tristan remarked, rubbing his shoulder. The woman packed a surprisingly hard punch. He would hate to feel a real one.

"I don't have many friends of the female persuasion. Most women think I am too uncouth and boyish to befriend." Melisende replied.

"Too bad. They're missing out on a good friend." Tristan said with a smile.

Melisende rolled her eyes. "You are avoiding answering me."

"Alright then. I knew Brenna briefly a long time ago. It was a coincidence that we met again." Tristan answered finally.

"Interesting..."

"That's all I am saying." Tristan cut Melisende off before she could ask more. He turned around to face the deck. His mood soured as he viewed Clotilde, leaning against the railing on the other side, watching him closely. "That woman is glaring at me again."

Melisende frowned. "I would offer to beat her for you, but the last time I tried... well, my scalp is still sore and my pride still wounded..." she rubbed her head. "Not to mention I still have a huge bruise on my ribs from her shield bash."

Tristan snickered and then ran a hand through his hair in thought. "I don't know what her problem is."

"Isn't it obvious? Every time I see her watching you, like now, she is literally green with envy." Melisende explained with conviction. Tristan pondered that. It could be true. Why the Orlesian Warden would be jealous of him, he couldn't even begin to fathom however.

"Envy? She doesn't know what she's envious of." Tristan said.

"She should just crawl back to Orlais and rot for all I care." Melisende sent a glare towards Clotilde, who continued to watch them. She had taken her armour off and directed Marcel to do so as well, superstitious about wearing heavy plate on a ship that could sink. She didn't look as impressive without it on, but she still emanated cockiness unmatched by even Ronan. For his part, Tristan had yet to replace his set of armour that he had buried outside of Gwaren and wore simple clothes, no doubt unbefitting for a Warden Commander in Clotilde's mind. Tristan let out a deep breath.

"You know, you didn't have to come with me," he said to Melisende.

"You need support. I was there too, during the Blight. We were a team. We made decisions together, all of us. You needn't take all the blame." Melisende replied.

"Well, if everyone insists on calling me _Hero_, then it is my duty to take responsibility for everything that happened. The good and the so called _bad_. Not doing so would make me a hypocrite. And that is one thing I don't want to be."

Melisende sighed. "In that case, I've got your back."

"Still, I've dragged you away from Howe enough already. You didn't have to do this."

"You're my friend. You think I would let you face this alone?"

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised." Tristan admitted. "You've already chased me around Ferelden once before. You're a good friend, Mel. I thank you for standing by me."

Melisende smiled. She was a better friend than he deserved.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Melisende shifted to her other side, for the twentieth time that night. Or was it the hundredth time? She really couldn't tell. She had been tossing and turning the whole night. The waters were calm and the ship sailed smoothly through the night. Melisende couldn't blame her restlessness on that. Instead, she had Tristan to thank, for she couldn't stop her mind from working and therefore, she couldn't get to sleep. Tristan had given her a lot to think about. Across the room, he lay asleep. Quite unfair, she thought.

Seeing Ronan again had been not only a surprise, but unnerving as well. She didn't like to admit it, but Tristan was right. She had feelings for Ronan. They had crept up on her, but they were there. As soon as they had parted she had felt something. When she fell into Nathaniel's arms and could only think of Ronan, she had tried to ignore the thoughts. She had succeeded, for the most part. But now, with Ronan so very near, they had crept back into her. She had thought Ronan was at least her friend, but the way that he had talked to her, it only confused her more.

At the same time, she loved Nathaniel. How could she have feelings for two all at once? It was times like this that she wished her mother were still alive. Her mother had always been willing to listen to her problems. Normally, Melisende would ignore Eleanor's advice, for she only wanted to dump her problems onto somebody, but now, she would give anything for mother's opinion. If only she had a woman friend to talk to, too. Leliana had been a good friend, always willing to listen and offer advice to her, but that friendship didn't seem to exist anymore.

Melisende turned again and shoved a measly pillow over her face. _Ronan, what are you doing to me?_ She wanted to scream, to rid herself of these feelings. It would only end badly. There were more important things to think about than her feelings, than her attraction to that elf. _That handsome and roguish Dalish elf_. Melisende groaned into the pillow. It almost felt as if by some stroke of bad luck she had to choose between her two favourite swords, an impossible, unfathomable decision.

Tristan stirred from the other side of the room. "What is that racket?" he asked sleepily.

Embarrassed, Melisende sat up. "Apologies."

"Listen," Tristan shushed her.

Perplexed, Melisende listened. Tristan hadn't been referring to her restless sleep she realized. Footsteps pounded over their heads, scurrying and shuffling. From above deck came also muffled shouts and curses. Sounds she had failed to notice in her meandering thoughts.

"Maker," Tristan sighed, "it must be Ronan."

Melisende's chest tightened. The crew must have found him. Perhaps they were going to throw him overboard. She threw the blankets away from her and leaped up from the creaky cot. She strode quickly to the door of the chamber.

"What are you doing?" Tristan called out.

"I'm going to help," she replied as she opened the door and rushed quickly into the dark hallways of the ship's hull.

...

The toothless _shem_ had his arms in a death grip. If only he could reach for his sword, he'd show them what it meant to be a Dalish warrior.

"Throw 'im overboard!" another _shem_ commanded. "Damn knife-ears think they can get a free ride."

Ronan planted his feet firmly on the wooden planks of the deck. Let the _shem_ try and throw him overboard if he could. Ronan would not budge from this spot. The toothless man pulled at him with all his might, but could not move him. Ronan chuckled.

"What kind of weakling are you? It's just a knife-ear, and one with one hand too. How hard can it be to push him over?" the other man chastised the toothless one. He came over and grabbed a hold of Ronan, but he too could not move Ronan. Ronan sneered in delight.

"It seems you are the weaklings here." Ronan taunted. The man grumbled and let go, but the toothless man still held onto him tightly.

"Theo," the grumbling man called out, and then turned to Ronan with a malicious smirk. "Take care of this."

Theo was a large and very burly _shem_. Ronan cursed inwardly as the man came over from the prow towards him. Now he really wished that he could grab a hold of his longsword. But Theo was on him already, pulling him away from the toothless _shem_ and toward the railing of the ship. Ronan kicked at Theo's legs, but Theo did not seem to notice.

"Your kicks are like the bite of a fly," Theo said calmly, "I do not feel them at all."

Ronan gritted his teeth and kicked harder. If he could only get his arm free, he could reach for his sword. They were at the edge now. Theo grabbed the back of his neck and pointed him toward the dark and fathomless waters below.

"I hope you know how to swim," Theo said as he lifted Ronan's legs, ready to throw him over. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be thrown overboard. He was a good swimmer. He could swim to shore, wherever that was.

"Wait!" someone cried out. Theo paused. Ronan had enough time to look over his shoulder. _Gods, it's Melisende_.

Melisende frantically grasped Theo's shoulder. "Please, don't throw him over."

"He's a stowaway." Theo explained without emotion. Ronan dangled precariously over the edge.

"He's with us," someone else said. Ronan took a peek. _Gods, even worse, it's Tristan._

"Then why was he hiding in the crates?" Theo asked. The toothless _shem_ came over to see what was happening.

"He's a little simple," Tristan explained, tapping his head.

_By Elgarnan, I swear he will pay for that_. "I am not simple. I know exactly what I am doing and I am _not_ with _them_." Ronan said angrily. "Throw me over already!"

"You heard 'im," the toothless _shem_ said to Theo, "throw 'im over."

"No!" Melisende cried out.

But Theo didn't listen to her. Ronan was prepared to go flying into the water, but instead he found himself tumbling back onto Theo and rolling onto the deck, his longsword poking painfully into his back. The ship creaked loudly, and when he looked up, pushing his cloak out of his face, he saw that everyone else had fallen.

...

The ship rocked from side to side, it's creaking and moaning cutting through the quiet that had settled over the ship. As he lay on his back, he noticed that the sky was filled with stars, the moon lighting up the deck brilliantly. Tristan picked himself up and gazed around him. Looks of panic had settled over the faces of the few sailors awake. He went over to Melisende and helped her up. He tried to help Ronan up, but was shoved away.

"I don't need your help." Ronan hissed.

"Fine." Tristan held his hands up in submission.

The ship tilted toward the prow, squeaking sharply. For a moment it looked to Tristan like the ship was going to tip over, but it violently jerked back, sending everyone sprawling back to the deck. Tristan hit the back of his head hard. Dizziness overcame him and he couldn't get up.

"There's something in the water!" a sailor shouted from atop the crow's nest, panic edging his voice as the ship became completely, eerily still. Tristan finally sat up, holding his head in pain. His vision was blurry, but he could see everyone running to the sides of the ship to see what was in the water.

"Maker, help us!" one sailor shouted.

"Did you see that shadow? Did you see how big it was?" another sailor asked, running to the stern.

"Tristan, you have to see this!" Melisende called out from somewhere. He looked around, he thought he spotted her and Ronan, but he wasn't quite sure. He rubbed the back of his head. He couldn't think straight at the moment. He stood up, fighting for balance, shaking the dizziness off, the blurred vision. He felt like he was in the Fade yet again.

The ship lurched to the side, surprising everyone once more. Tristan was able to stay afoot this time, but gasped as large waves of water crashed onto the ship, washing people to sea. What was going on?

His vision cleared. He looked around for his friend, for his brother. He could not see them. He thought he might have seen Clotilde and Marcel from the corner of his eyes, but he wasn't sure. His back was to the stern, he gazed ahead calmly. A sailor, Theo, he thought, stood a few feet in front of him. A pure look of terror spread over the big man's face as he looked toward Tristan, and then up, up, and up into the sky. A dread feeling building within him, Tristan followed the man's gaze. The waters of the ocean raining down on him, he could not see at first. But then he saw it. A high dragon.

The dragon circled the ship, blotting out the moon in one moment, causing panic and sending men fleeing for cover in the next moment. It gleamed crimson under the light of the moon. It was both magnificent and monstrous. A huge creature, with wide bat-like wings, spread so far in reach that they seemed like they could reach from shore to shore over the Waking Sea. The dragon's head was crowned with horns, two jutting from the top on either side, symmetrical, and two from the middle and two smaller ones at the bottom. One sharp, blade-like horn seemed to divide the dragon's face in perfect halves, like a nose guard on a helmet, only this horn pointed upward. Scales ran down the creatures back, along its arms and legs and its tail. It was a long tail, three horns extended from the middle of it. A feeling of déjà vu crept into Tristan. The dragon seemed familiar.

Tristan was unable to move. He had fought high dragons before, but never in such a space as this. He searched again for Melisende and Ronan, but saw nothing. He spotted instead Clotilde and Marcel at the prow, brandishing their weapons at the sky.

With a great roar that seemed to split the warm night air in two, the dragon landed on the crow's nest, wobbling the ship, and causing it to groan under the weight. The poor sailor that had been in the nest tried to jump out, but the dragon caught him in mid-fall, crushing him in its powerful claws. The dragon bellowed triumphantly.

Tristan readied himself. Surely, the dragon would be spitting something from its mouth next. Right on cue, the dragon let out a great breath of fire over the ship. Tristan dodged just out of the reach of the flames, but the sails caught fire and embers came raining down on him. A fire dragon then. He had defeated one before – the old hag Flemeth. Brushing off the fiery embers from his clothes, he made his way closer to the dragon. Unsheathing Vigilance from his back, feeling lucky that he had had the sense to bring it on deck when he followed Melisende up, he pointed the sword at the dragon, releasing a cold energy toward the dragon.

The dragon screeched in pain as the cold hit it. Unfortunately, the dragon turned its attention to Tristan, furious. It flew off of the crow's nest, cracking it in two as its tail lashed it. The wooden structure came crashing to the deck. Tristan nearly didn't make it out of the way of the falling debris.

The dragon dove into the water, sending waves washing over the ship again, dousing the fires. But it wasn't being merciful. The dragon came back, this time ripping through the hull of the ship, breaking it in two. Surely this was the end of them all. There was nothing Tristan could do. Not alone. He couldn't see anyone he knew.

The stern began to heave forward. Tristan slid down toward the water. The dragon had not forgotten about him. Desperately, Tristan cast winter's breath again at the dragon as it flew so very near him. It was so close he thought he could feel it brushing atop his head. The dragon was diverted by the cold, but it came around again in a wide arc, its silhouette against the moon a dreadful sight to behold.

Tristan clutched at the deck with one hand and pointed Vigilance at the dragon with his other. He would cut the thing open this time. The dragon flew over him, but it was too quick. He could not get a slash in. Instead, the dragon's tail knocked the sword out of his hand and sent him flying to the other side of the stern. His head smacked against the railing. He could feel darkness wash over him this time. The last thing he saw was the dragon's furious inferno on the remnants of the battered and split ship and the dragon's satisfied retreat into the beautiful night sky.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Why did they send a dwarf to do a man's job?" said the rugged Antivan with a playful grin.

The bald dwarf leaned precariously over the edge of the rowboat, reaching out as far as his little arms could reach, which still fell short, far short, of the object of his desire.

"Shut up, Leandro," the dwarf spat out in reply.

"I could help you..." Leandro offered, leaning over the same edge as the dwarf, causing the rowboat to rock and tip dangerously to the left. The dwarf nearly fell into the water. Leandro laughed loudly and wholeheartedly before moving back to the center of the rowboat.

"Idiot!" the dwarf glared at his companion with menace. Satisfied with his warning, he turned his attention back to the water. There had been a shipwreck and they had been sent out to find anything of value. The dwarf always had a good eye for valuables and so far all he saw amidst the debris was a sword. It rested on a piece of the ship's deck, threatening to sink at any moment. He was surprised it hadn't already sunk to the bottom of the sea. Feeling lucky, the dwarf made a rowing gesture with his arms. "Row us closer Leandro!" he commanded his companion.

"Einar, Einar, Einar," Leandro teased, shaking his head and causing strands of jet black hair to fall free from his ponytail. "That sword looks cursed. I mean, look how it rests innocently pristine amongst all this destruction."

"It looks valuable and I'm not about to let it get away." Einar replied, rubbing the palms of his hands together, calculating silently how much silver, no sovereigns more likely, it could possibly fetch in the markets.

"And you will only get a pittance for it," Leandro said, ruining Einar's vision of sovereigns. The Antivan was right. Any bounty they found would go straight to the Black Plunder and fill Fausto's already fat pockets. Still, he might get a bonus. A dwarf could only hope.

The rowboat glided closer to the debris, propelled forward by the strong arms of Leandro. Einar could reach the sword now. "Stop, before you tip it over and we've wasted our precious time."

Leandro stopped rowing and let the boat drift. The waters were calm now, whereas the night before they had been treacherous. The odd thing was there had not been a single storm cloud in the sky, nor a single gust of wind. Yet the waves on the sea had been as high as Leandro had ever seen during a storm. Captain Alaric, always superstitious, said the tempest had come from within the sea itself. He had ordered _The Empress's Wine_ halted in fear of a sea monster. Red had not been happy, for they needed to be in Val Royeaux at a certain time, but there was nothing anyone could do or say to make old Captain Alaric get the ship moving again.

This very morning, after Captain Alaric finally regained his wits, they had come upon the remains of this ship, torn apart and burned in places. It certainly did look like a sea monster had attacked the ship. Maybe they had been wrong to question Captain Alaric's sanity. The old guy had been a sailor for longer than most of them were alive. It was all very eerie. _Poor suckers_, Leandro thought as he looked around the mess. He doubted anyone could have survived.

Einar had grabbed a hold of the sword by now and heaved it into the rowboat. With a self-satisfied smirk, Einar held it up for him to behold. Leandro had to admit, it was a magnificent sword. The hilt glowed golden, the guard resembled feathered wings, and the pommel was curved, like a snail shell. It all seemed to Leandro to represent some sort of mythical creature. An abstract dragon, perhaps? The blade itself might have been made of dragonbone, for it was a peculiar white color. The middle of the blade sported a sort of claw, a sharp triangular edge that jutted out from the main blade. The better to twist someone's insides, he thought. Leandro was no expert of longswords, but he had to admit, the dwarf had spotted something incredible.

"Who could own such a thing?" Leandro asked in awe.

"Finders keepers, losers weepers," Einar boasted, holding onto the sword proudly. "It's ours now and by the ancestors, this will fetch a good price."

Leandro sighed. All Einar could think of was money. He never trusted the dwarf; Einar would do almost anything for coin, including ratting out his comrades. That's why nobody really liked the guy. He was Fausto's little eyes and ears. It was best not to say anything rash around the dwarf, or the boss would find out. And Leandro never had anything good to say about Fausto if he had anything to say about him at all. So he made sure to hold his tongue around the dwarf, lest the boss find out Leandro's true loyalties.

"Back to the ship then?" Leandro asked. "I doubt there's anything else salvageable out here."

"Turn around then, pretty boy." Einar agreed. Leandro shook his head. He would like nothing better than to throw the dwarf overboard and have a good laugh at the brute flailing in the water. A smile crept over his face at the thought.

They were on their way back to the ship when Einar stood up and pointed to something behind Leandro. "Poor sod."

Leandro stopped rowing and craned his neck back to see what Einar was pointing at. "A man?"

"Probably dead," Einar replied.

The man was draped over debris, unmoving.

"Let's make sure," Leandro suggested. He would feel terrible if they just left him there without at least checking.

"Maybe he's got some coin or expensive jewellery on him," Einar agreed in his usual way. If there was something useful or valuable to be had, he'd do it.

Leandro steered the boat toward the man. The man had hair the color of a candle flame – not quite red, not quite orange, but a little golden in the sunlight. He was young, probably by a few years younger than Leandro, who was pushing thirty. The man was also well built. Leandro thought that the man must be a warrior or something of that type. As they reached the man's side, Leandro leaned over and poked the man. Nothing happened. He touched the man's wrist for a better indication. There was a slight pulse.

"He's alive," Leandro said with surprise. He looked to Einar. The dwarf was fingering his chin thoughtfully.

"Let's take him back to the ship," Einar said with a mischievous grin. "This man is probably worth more than the sword."

Leandro watched Einar with narrowed eyes. "Is saving a man's life just for the sake of saving a life not good enough for you? Must you always think of coin?"

"Well, he's not worth anything to us dead, so let's get him out of the water," Einar retorted.

Leandro rolled his eyes. It was more like, _Leandro_ get him out of the water. With a grumble, Leandro pulled the man into the boat.

...

Einar and Leandro returned to _The_ _Empress's Wine _sometime later, dumping the tall and well built man onto the deck. Red, their boss for the job, cocked an eyebrow in surprise. He wasn't expecting this. The man was dripping wet, but clearly still alive, as evidenced by the rise and fall of his chest. He was probably just unconscious.

"Found him clutching to ship debris." Leandro said, poking at the man with his foot.

"I told you to bring something of value. This man... he's just another mouth to feed." Red scowled at Einar and Leandro. The dwarf crossed his arms in defence. He grinned. "What are you grinning at, dwarf?"

"You don't recognize this man?" Einar asked him smugly.

Red bunched his eyebrows together, glaring at the dwarf. Einar only tilted his head in the man's direction. With a sigh, Red moved closer to the man. He crouched down to examine him thoroughly. What he saw truly surprised him. He did know the identity of the young man. Without showing any emotion, he stood up quickly.

"Tie him up, blindfold him, and bring him to my cabin," he commanded Einar and Leandro.

...

The pounding in his head grew louder. He opened his eyes, but the darkness did not go away, nor did the pounding in his head. Tristan made to clutch his head, but found that he was tied tightly to a post. If he couldn't see, then he must be blindfolded. Where was he?

He wished he could see. He wished the pounding in his head would stop. He tried to pull his hands free. Nothing happened. He tried to burn the rope away, but nothing happened.

"Don't bother," a man called out in warning. He wasn't alone. "Your magic is temporarily useless."

"So you're a Templar?" he asked in reply.

The man chuckled. "A Templar? No. I am something far worse."

What could be worse than a templar? "A maleficar, then?"

The man sighed. He must not like being called that. "Yes, a _maleficar_," the man replied in disgust.

"Would you rather I call you blood mage?" Tristan asked sarcastically. He hated being useless. He hated the fact that somebody had made him this way. Who was this mage?

"Just call me Red."

"Alright, Red." Tristan couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of the name, a blood mage named Red. "Where am I?"

"On a ship, obviously."

If this man Red was a sailor, and if Tristan knew sailors, they were superstitious, then perhaps he could scare Red into letting him go. "Last ship I was on sunk. Are you sure you want to take that chance with me?"

Red laughed.

"Tell me, _Grey Warden_, how much are you worth to your order?"

So the man named Red knew who he was. Great. His head throbbed even harder. He squinted in pain, gritted his teeth, bunched up his fists. He needed to break free somehow.

"Seeing as I was on my way to a whole lot of trouble, probably not much." Tristan sarcastically replied. That probably wasn't true. The First Warden wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery of him being alive.

"You must be worth something."

"I won't allow myself to be ransomed. Not if it means enriching you. A blood mage with a ship. You must be some sort of criminal." Tristan took a chance and dared the mage. "You might as well kill me now."

The man paced around the room. Or that was what it sounded like. The next thing Tristan knew, Red was close to him. He could smell his breath. It wasn't what he thought a criminal blood mage's breath would smell like. It wasn't rotten smelling at all.

"Drink." Red commanded, shoving a flask of water in his face. He was angry, but so very thirsty, so he let the man pour water down his throat. Red walked away.

"What is your name?"

"Tristan," he answered. He was confused. Most people who knew that he was the Warden Commander knew his name.

"That's it?"

"Where've you been living, under a rock?" Tristan asked with frustration audible in the tone of his voice. Really, how many interrogations was he going to have to go through this month? He could at least turn the tables on his captor.

"Something like that." Red replied with a hint of humour. Tristan could almost picture the smirk that must be creeping upon his face. "Please, indulge me."

"Amell." Tristan replied tersely.

Red said nothing after that. Tristan heard only footsteps, then the creaking of a door and the closing of that door. He sighed and knocked his head backward onto the wall, hoping to knock away the pain. Was he the only survivor of the shipwreck? Or should he think of it as a dragon attack? He shivered at the memory. He had to know. He had to know if his friend was dead, if his brother was dead.

He thought of Melisende. She couldn't be dead. It was impossible. A shipwreck couldn't do her in. She was better than that. He remembered the wave washing over the ship, the dragon breathing fire everywhere, the ship breaking in two. If Ronan was dead too, then Siofra would think she lost both sons, though he doubted she could know that they had been on the same ship. It would be perhaps months of long waiting, of not hearing anything from both of them before she jumped to deathly conclusions. And then more months, maybe even years of not knowing what had happened, at least to Ronan. His own presence on the ship was known. At least she would think he drowned. It was a whole lot nicer to think of than being murdered by a maleficar raider, criminal, whatever Red was.

Cursing, he tried to pull at the rope binding his hands. They wouldn't budge. No doubt the mage had put a spell on the rope. He tried to shake the blindfold off, so that he could see. He hated this darkness. It made him feel like he _was_ dead. Perhaps he had already passed into the Fade and was stuck wandering there. But no, he felt slightly nauseated and his head pounded painfully. Only somebody alive could feel that way, surely.

His thoughts turned to Brenna. He wondered if she had made her way to the Keep. He should have written to her before he left. But he didn't like writing letters, so he had put it off until there was no time. Now he might never get the chance to tell her how he felt about her. She would think him dead. She would move on and he would lose his chance with her. He had played with her feelings for him for too long. Perhaps this was his just punishment. She deserved better than him and now she had the chance for that. He banged his head against the wall. _Stop thinking like that_.

Tristan had to know what had happened to the others. Heck, he even hoped that Clotilde and her lapdog Marcel were alive. For all they riled up the worst in him, they did not deserve to die a slow and painful drowning death, or death by fire. At least they had removed their plate armour. The superstition of Clotilde had proven true. Perhaps they had managed to swim to safety? He would ask Red the next time that he came back.

...

Red stood alone on deck, well, as alone as one could be on a ship. His gaze focused longingly in the direction of Ferelden, his home. He hadn't been born there, but he had spent most of his youth there, trapped in the Circle Tower. When he broke free, those were the happiest days of his life. Now he had no home. Llomerryn was a viper's pit and his life there was no life at all. He shook his head. _You are Rory Amell still, Dex can never take that away from you_, he reassured himself.

_Amell_. The Grey Warden was an Amell. His suspicions of the man were growing, ever since he had been knocked over by him in Denerim, after leaving Siofra's side. Red hadn't known then the man's name, but he had looked so familiar, so like Siofra, that his identity had plagued him. Could the man be his son? If Tristan were his son, then Maker only knew what would happen, for the dwarf expected him at the very least, to ransom the Grey Warden.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

She had been looking in the water, mesmerized by the monstrous shadow swimming below them, untouched by the panic of the sailors around her. She should have known better. Even when Ronan came to stand by her, to see what all the fuss was about, Melisende couldn't contain her excitement.

"I bet it's a dragon!" she had said with glee. She had wondered where her swords were, because she knew the creature would attack sooner or later. But she hadn't been afraid. She should have been afraid.

"I guess I should thank you then." Ronan had said to her, a faint trace of fear in his voice as he watched the shadow dance in the water below them, its red scales occasionally glinting in the moonlight. "I might have been dragon bait."

"Fear not, Ronan. Taking on a dragon is the most exhilarating kind of battle in the world." Melisende had replied confidently. A dragon, swimming through the water like a giant fish, surely, she had thought, it would not be able to fly with wet wings. It would therefore be easy to dispatch. But she should have known better.

"Tristan, you have to see this!" she had called out. But Tristan hadn't replied. _Where was he? _She had thought to herself.

It was then that the dragon had made waves, creating a tempest of the sea. It was then when the wave had smashed into her back, washed over her head, and propelled her into the ocean, as easily as if she were a leaf blowing in the wind. She hadn't been expecting that. She had struggled to stay above the water. The waves were so strong, pushing her farther and farther from the ship, though she didn't know it at the time. She had flailed about, sinking, forgetting how to swim, and thinking she would drown.

When she thought the end had come for her, when her nostrils filled with water and her lungs felt about to burst, she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, pulling her up. At first, she panicked, tried to push away, but finally, she broke through to the surface. As she took a sweet gulp of air, she saw her saviour; it was Ronan. He had been swept away too.

Then as suddenly as the waters had turned into a torrent, they had calmed. He held her still. She let him. They were miles away from the ship. The high dragon sat perched atop the mast, guarding the crow's nest, breathing fire onto the ship. Had everyone been washed away? Was Tristan still on the ship? Melisende had received no answers, for the sea was rocked again, a wall of water came for her once more, tearing her from Ronan's grip.

That time, she had vowed to stay afloat. It took all her strength, but in the end, she had won. She had bested the second torrent. And now she was ashore, alone, save for the gulls crying overhead. The dawn sun illuminated the sky in a pale pinkish light. The beach around her was littered with broken ships.

_A ship graveyard?_ How fitting that she should end up there. Perhaps she was dead. However, the taste of salt water clung within her mouth and the seaweed stuck in her hair was slimy and cold as she pulled it out. Surely, a dead person would not notice these things. Her stomach rumbled in hunger. She was alive, that was for certain now, for the dead did not feel hunger.

She lugged herself up to a standing position and gazed along the beach. Where was Ronan? He had to be around somewhere. He couldn't just save her only to disappear. She called out his name as she forced one foot after another forward along the beach. Her legs felt like jelly. She was so nervous, so scared that she wouldn't find him, her hands shook at her side.

She nearly stumbled over a cloak. She bent her knees to pick it up. It was Ronan's cloak, she knew. He had to be around somewhere.

Melisende carried herself further, quicker now. He must be near. The Maker wouldn't be so cruel as to leave her with only his cloak, would he?

She climbed some rocks, careful not to slip. Beyond, she spied him at long last, on his back in the sand, water lapping at his legs. She ran to him, her chest tightened in worry. _Let him be alive_.

"Ronan?" she quietly inquired as she reached him. She crouched down beside him. His eyes were closed. She placed a hand on his cheek. His eyes opened like a bolt from the blue and his right hand swiftly caught her hand on his cheek.

"You're alive!" Melisende cried out, her voice catching.

Brushing away her hand, Ronan sat up. "I'm exhausted," he said. He turned to her, squinting as the dawn sun hit his eyes. "And you are alive too."

"You saved me." Melisende said, tearing up. She was going to cry. She didn't want to, but it couldn't be helped. She had always been an emotional person.

"Don't cry," Ronan urged uncomfortably.

"Are they all dead?" Melisende asked, a few tears spilling over at the thought. She wiped them away, thinking of Tristan. "Is _he_ dead?"

"I don't know." Ronan shook his head, sympathy in his eyes.

Melisende dug her heels into the sand. Her clothes were wet and hung heavily on her. She shivered.

"Come," Ronan arose from the sand and gripped Melisende's arm gently, encouraging her to rise. "Let's get away from the water."

Melisende let herself be pulled up and away.

...

Melisende and Ronan had rested on the beach in silence, letting the sun dry them off. They didn't know where they were. They were not in Ferelden, and that was for sure. They were most likely in the Free Marches. They had agreed to walk along the coast. Perhaps they might catch sight of another survivor. But that was not to be. It seemed as if they were the only ones left alive.

When the sun went down, they stopped. They were both exhausted. There was no taunting from Ronan; in fact he hardly said anything at all. He let her brood. He started a small fire. He sat across from her. She felt his eyes linger on her.

She didn't know what to think about what happened, what might have happened to Tristan. She couldn't think. She didn't want to think about it. It was too soon, too soon to lose someone important to her yet again. How was she to move on from this? She felt like she couldn't breathe. She hugged her knees to her chest to calm herself down.

Melisende caught Ronan's gaze from across the fire. The glow of the fire made it seem as if his tattoos were dancing. She wondered what he was thinking as he stared back at her with his sparkly eyes. She sat there, transfixed by his face. His look was so... hypnotizing. In her mind she traced the straight line of his nose, the curves and meanders of his tattoos, the double curve of his upper lip. Instinctively, she moved slowly around to Ronan until she was sitting within a hand's grasp of him. He never took his eyes off of her.

She couldn't understand what she was doing, but she reached out her hand and brushed his face lightly. Why was she doing this? _I need to feel alive_, something in her mind cried out. She gripped his shoulders, hypnotized by his shining gaze. He narrowed his eyes at her touch, but did not brush her away.

Ronan placed his good hand on the side of her face, brushing away stray strands of her hair. Melisende closed her eyes and shivered. _This is right_, her mind reassured her body. She opened her eyes. "Kiss me," she boldly commanded him.

Ronan continued to eye her. He said nothing. He seemed hesitant to Melisende. What was she doing? She was being a fool. She made to move away, but Ronan pulled her back gently and did what she asked. Her breath was taken away as their lips met, sucked away from him and to him. She broke away, dizzy from the kiss. Ronan grinned at her then, mischief and challenge written all over his face.

That was it. She melted into his arms. _This is right_, she repeated to herself as her body embraced his in a fierce passion.

...

Ronan's eyelids fluttered open. The sky above promised another day. Drowsily, he sat up and shook the sand from his hair. Just beyond him, just out of his reach, sat Melisende, poking at the burnt out fire with a stick, a solemn look on her face. She was also dressed and ready to go. A shame, really, he would have liked to behold her nakedness in the daylight. He, on the other hand, was bare. He searched out his tattered clothing.

"So it wasn't a dream?" he asked, finding his trousers and putting them on.

Melisende turned to him and shook her head, almost shy. Reaching for his shirt, he wondered at the awkward silence. Perhaps she regretted what had happened? Maybe, he thought as he found his light boots, it hadn't been the right thing to do, for either of them, but it certainly had felt right.

"About last night..." he ventured, shaking his shirt free of sand.

"It happened." Melisende quickly interrupted. "That's the end of it."

Ronan narrowed his eyes in confusion. Well, he supposed he deserved the curtness. He hadn't exactly been nice to her on the ship. And what did he expect anyway? She had a man. She was probably feeling guilty. It shouldn't have happened. He cursed himself for a fool. He hadn't been able to resist her. He was just like his mother after all, but whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing, he couldn't tell at the moment.

_Mother and her love child_. Ronan thought of Tristan on the ship, the burnt out mess he had last seen. Losing him just as she had found him again, would kill his mother. But Ronan didn't think his brother dead. If anybody could survive a dragon attack and a ship wreck, it was his jerk of a brother. Melisende should know better, but here she was, grieving for that big oaf. She was out of her mind; was that the only reason she had turned to him last night?

Frustrated, Ronan turned his back on her and pulled his shirt over his head. He angrily stuck his feet in his boots and laced them up awkwardly with his one hand. He found his grandfather's sword and fit it to his back.

"Let's go then," he said brusquely as he walked away from the scene of the crime.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Taking a deep breath, Red pushed open the door to his cabin and walked slowly in, carrying a piece of bread. He looked over his prisoner carefully. If the man was his son, then the Maker sure had a sense of humour.

He crouched beside Tristan and slowly untied one hand from the post. Tristan did not stir, but Red felt the tension in the air. He placed the bread in the free hand. "Eat," Red commanded.

Tristan tossed the bread back in his face. "I'm not hungry."

Red shook his head. "Well, don't say I didn't try."

Tristan sat in silence. He flexed his free hand and rotated his shoulder, getting the kinks out, no doubt. Finally, he opened his mouth. "There are people who mean a lot to me that were on that ship. Was there anyone else alive besides me?"

Red fingered his chin in thought. "The dwarf brought only who he thought useful. I don't know if there were any other survivors. I'm sorry."

Tristan sighed. His eyes were not visible, hidden behind the blindfold, but Red could almost feel his pain. He watched Tristan carefully. Could he actually be his son? He was old enough to be his son. Scrutinizing him more closely, he noticed that he did resemble Siofra, though he couldn't be sure without looking at his eyes. He wasn't ready to take off the blindfold yet. And that tattoo, that was a Dalish design. Why would a human have a Dalish tattoo unless he was also Dalish?

"You're awfully good natured for a maleficar smuggler." Tristan remarked sorrowfully after a moment of calm silence.

"It was never my choice."

"What was?"

"To live this life." Red answered sorrowfully.

"We all have choices." Tristan said. Wise words from someone so young.

"Do we? I was raised in the tower, like you." He wanted to know where Tristan was raised. It would give him a better idea of whether or not he was his son.

"You escaped?" Tristan asked him. He didn't refute that he was raised in the tower, so was it true? Would Siofra have given up her son to the Circle? He didn't think she would, but perhaps there was a reason.

"More than once." Red replied.

"Because you were a maleficar."

"No, that came later."

Red watched Tristan thoughtfully. He felt the urge to tell him his story. Why? He didn't really know. Perhaps, if Tristan was Alim, then he should know the truth. He should know what his father was. He didn't think Siofra would have told him the truth, that he was a coward. She didn't even really know the true Rory. "Let me tell you my story."

"Why should I care?" Tristan retorted.

"It's a long way to Val Royeaux. You might as well listen."

"Like I have a choice." Tristan grumbled.

Red couldn't help but laugh. "Didn't you just finish telling me we all have choices?"

Grinning, he replied, "I guess I did. Well, I'll listen, if it'll make this voyage end any quicker. Take my blindfold off, will you?"

"Later."

Tristan sighed. "Fine. Get on with it then."

"Oh, where to begin..." Red thought aloud. How much did he want to tell the Grey Warden?

"How about the part where you escaped the tower?" Tristan suggested after a moment.

"Good idea, boy." Red replied, causing Tristan to frown. "When I was about 18 years old, when I was still an apprentice, I escaped the tower. I managed to evade the Templars for some months. Those months were the best months of my life." Red recalled fondly. He thought of Siofra, hitting him with an arrow, hiding him away in the ruins.

"I met a girl, a wonderful girl. Life was finally good. But I was caught, eventually. I was put into solitary confinement in the tower's basement."

"Sounds like every other sorry tale of an apostate." Tristan commented.

"Oh, it gets better, or _worse_ is probably a better word." Red said. "I promise."

"Worse? Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You must have escaped again, for you wouldn't be standing before me, possessed by a demon." Tristan remarked.

"I am not possessed." Red said.

"No? I thought you were a blood mage."

"It's complicated." Red said. He moved his thoughts back to his story. He had escaped again, but it had been horrible. He had killed, no murdered in cold blood, one of the only persons to ever have cared a fig about him. _Jarek_. The price for freedom had been too high. It always was. He didn't think he could speak of that part. He would gloss over it. "I did escape, with the help of a friend, Fausto is the name he goes by now. He told me we were to be made Tranquil. I couldn't let that happen. I managed to destroy my phylactery. I promised to destroy his, in Denerim. But, the Templars caught up to me. They knew where I would be."

"His phylactery was in Denerim?" Tristan asked. "That right there sounds suspicious. Why would the Circle want to make a harrowed mage Tranquil? For Fausto could only be a harrowed mage to have his phylactery stored in Denerim."

"Right, I'll get to that, I promise." Red said. The man was smart, smarter than he had been.

"Go on then." Tristan said.

"The Templars had me cornered." Red continued. _That was when I shoved you and your mother into the river. I couldn't let them take you._ "I spent all my mana sending useless bolts toward them. They drew my blood. I was desperate. I took what I knew... used my blood to kill them, horribly, slowly, I took control of their minds. They killed each other."

The long hours brooding in the library had taught him the basics of blood magic. _The Circle really should be more wary of the kinds of books they leave on the shelves_. One didn't necessarily have to accept the demon to get its help. But it would not leave him. Ever.

He had enjoyed watching Edwin be cut down by his own men. He had thrown their corpses into the river, like a criminal covering up his crime. Red shook his head and continued. "I went to Denerim. I keep my word. I promised to help Fausto. I met up with him. We found the phylacteries, broke his. Believing him to be a friend, I confessed to him what I had done. That I had turned to blood magic. He begged me to teach him. I refused. Then he convinced me to go away with him. I was ashamed of what I had become – a cold blooded murderer."

"I told myself my family would be better off without me, better off thinking I was dead. So I followed Fausto. We took to a ship, not knowing where it was heading; we just wanted to be out of Denerim, out of Ferelden. It landed in Llomerrynn. I curse that day now."

"Fausto, I discovered, already had connections on the island. He knew raiders, was working for some, smuggling lyrium to the tower. He brought me to them, said we would work our way up the ranks. But we didn't." Red paused. He was a monster. "We killed our way to the top of the Black Plunder, a branch of the Felicisima Armada. Fausto was filled with glee, running a lucrative operation like this. I grew tired of the life after some time, and sense returned to me; I wanted to return home to Ferelden, to my family." _To you, my son, and your mother_.

"I took to ship one day. But Fausto had other plans for me. He had me dragged back to the base. It was then I learned the truth of my friend." Red could barely restrain his anger. He still couldn't believe how stupid, how blind he had been to Dex. "He wasn't my friend at all. He used me all along to further his own power. He lied to me all along – I didn't know back then that it was against the law to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil, otherwise Fausto's claim of the Circle wanting to make us both Tranquil would have been proven right away as false. He tricked me."

_I had killed an innocent man because of his lie_... "And the reason Edwin found me... Fausto was working with him all along, providing lyrium to him and his cronies. They had decided they needed me. They decided my magic, _my curse_," Red spit out in anger, "would be useful to them. Fausto told Edwin exactly where to find me." _It wasn't the quartermaster..._ Even now, Red wanted to wring the man's neck. But it was near impossible, unless he resorted to the demon.

"Fausto, as a warning to me for not taking off again or trying to, killed one of the whores I'd been friendly with."_ Leandro's poor mother Ileana_. She had reminded him of Siofra. She had been so kind to him. Much more than he had deserved. And she had paid the ultimate price for him.

"He also threatened to turn me in to the Templars, whom he was still working with, if I didn't do his dirty work. They would surely turn me in for killing their own. And most importantly, he threatened my family." _My love, my son, my mother, father, sister in Ferelden, and even distant family in Kirkwall..._

"So I did his dirty work, and continue to do so to this day."

_I am an easily manipulated fool,_ Red thought with disgust, closing his eyes and craning his head to the side.

...

"If you are as powerful as you claim, why not just break free of your boss? I mean, you are stopping me from casting any spells." Tristan broke through his thoughts.

"Am I still doing that?" Red asked with a grin.

Surprised, Tristan tried to burn the remaining knot from his hand. Nothing happened. Red laughed. Tristan frowned. "That wasn't funny."

"Oh, but it was."

"I cannot see you, so in my head, I picture you as a bent old man, cracking jokes to all the little children. Are you ever serious, Red?"

Red flinched. That question brought him back to the ruins. Siofra had asked the exact same thing of him. "When there is a need to be, yes. But tell me, how can you think me a _bent old man_? Does my voice really cry out shrivelled old fool?"

Tristan chuckled. "No, it does not. It is your story that makes you seem old. You have been through a lot. How long ago was it when you first escaped the Circle Tower?"

"Twenty-five or twenty-six years ago." Red replied.

"Er, in any case, I am curious. Why don't you just go back to your family? Surely the Templars wouldn't recognize you after all these years? You are a blood mage, Fausto is not. What is stopping you?"

"I don't know. Maybe they did not even survive the Blight..." _Shame, cowardice..._ he thought. He never used blood magic unless he had to. The demon hovered around him always, badgering him, pushing him to fully accept him. There was only so much he could do to hold it off, to stop himself from fully looking it in the eye and becoming a real blood mage. _No more dark thoughts_. "Enough about me. You said you are in trouble? What did you do?"

"Something terrible." Tristan answered.

"Oh? What is that?"

"None of your business, that is what."

"I just told you my story, now tell me, what did you do to earn the ire of your order?"

"Oh, why not? If I'm to die in your custody, I might as well tell the world the truth. I'm not the hero they think I am..."

"I never said I would kill you..."

"But I told you I'd rather die than be ransomed, so you have no choice there, Red."

"We'll see. Now, on with your story." Red said.

"To make a long story short, before the final battle, I made a selfish deal with a Witch of the Wilds. A son was conceived. The Grey Wardens, me and two others, were saved." Tristan said, sounding as if he had explained this many times before.

"I don't see what's so terrible about that."

"When an archdemon is slain, normally the essence of the old god is absorbed by the Grey Warden dealing the death blow, thereby killing said Grey Warden. But because of this ritual, the essence was instead absorbed into the unborn child. The Grey Warden taking me to explain myself in Weisshaupt thinks I have brought doom upon the world by bringing this child into the world." Tristan really was tired of constantly explaining this.

"A child with the essence of the old god? Doesn't necessarily have to be something evil, in my humble opinion." Red said.

"Well, I don't know anymore."

"Why did you do the ritual?" Red probed.

"Besides saving my own hide? I'm not sure." Tristan had never really thought hard about this. He had always told himself it was because his friends would live, so he could be with Leliana. But why did he let himself go through with it? And why was he telling all this to Red? "If I am a horrible person for wanting to live..."

"No, you are not. People's first instincts are always to save themselves. It is a universal flaw. I have never met anyone who wouldn't do the same. In any case, did you trust the witch?"

"I guess I had no reason not to. She had been by my side all those months..."

"It's easy to be fooled by someone you think is your friend. But sometimes it turns out they're not really your friend after all." Red said. Tristan thought of the story Red had just told him. Red had been betrayed, horribly, by a so called friend. Morrigan had yet to show signs of betrayal. She had done what she said she would. He guessed, compared to Red, he was lucky. None of his friends had truly betrayed him. Not to the extent Fausto had to Red.

"Hmmm. I guess time will tell if my son is a bane to this world. I can only hope that I'll be around if that happens... to stop him."

"Why wouldn't you be there?" Red asked, puzzled.

Tristan sighed. "Well, if I don't die on this ship... I'm a Grey Warden; we don't exactly live to be old men."

"Why not?"

Tristan sighed again. He really was saying too much to this man. It was none of his business. "It's complicated. I've said enough already. I don't want to talk anymore. I don't even know who you are. That story you told? Maybe you just wanted me to pity you so I wouldn't kill you later..."

Red laughed. "Fine. Whatever you want. But in telling you my story, that was not my intention."

What were Red's intentions? Tristan couldn't see the man, but he had felt the anger, the pain, emanating from the man as he told his story. He didn't know what to think. Red was a criminal, a blood mage. Why should Tristan care how he ended up on that path? Did Red want something from him? He wouldn't be surprised, really. Being Warden Commander, being a friend to the King, had brought many people to him, begging favours.

The door to the cabin creaked open. Tristan heard timid footsteps pound the floor of the cabin.

"Red, I must speak with you," said a man with an Antivan accent.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

A city lay sprawled over sheer black cliffs which jutted out in front of them. The pale, sandstone coloured buildings contrasted sharply with the cliffs. After walking for so long along the coast, they had reached civilization at last, but Melisende did not know what she was seeing.

"What is this city?" she asked, not expecting a reply. They hadn't talked much. Ronan seemed angry with her; however, she didn't think he could be angrier than she was with herself. Why had she let it happen? Why had she started it? She tried not to think of it. The fact that it had felt so good only made her feel guiltier.

"It's Kirkwall, the city of chains." Ronan solemnly replied.

She turned to him in surprise. "You've been here before?"

"I told you before, my clan left Ferelden during the Blight." Ronan explained, meeting her eyes for the first time in two days. "We passed through this dump. You should see it coming in from the sea; it's even more depressing to look at with all those awful looking statues. Free Marchers have an odd sense of art."

"Where did your clan stay, then, if not in Kirkwall?" Melisende probed curiously.

"The Planasene Forest. It is just west of here." Ronan answered, and then turned to look at the huge mountains to the north with a thoughtful look. "There was a Dalish clan by the mountains. I wonder if they're still there."

"Will you go there?"

Ronan shrugged. "I should return home, but, I don't know."

Melisende thought of Siofra, Ronan's elegant mother. Tristan's mother, too. She wondered again if he was alive. She needed to get home, even if she couldn't bear to think of standing before Nathaniel and looking him in the eye and lying to him. She flicked her hair to the back in frustration.

"Well, let us find passage home." Melisende suggested, taking the lead. Ronan caught her arm. She shivered at his touch, remembering that night with him.

"I will lead," he said, letting go of her as he took the lead. "There are many thugs in this dump and you have no way of defending yourself."

Melisende frowned. Normally she would find offense at the notion that she couldn't fend for herself, but he was right. She didn't have any weapons on her and her armour was probably sitting at the bottom of the sea with her swords. Ronan, on the other hand, still carried his longsword on his back. He was a great warrior, even with one hand.

"Fine," she agreed with a sigh. "Lead on."

...

The dockyards of Kirkwall were dusty and ratty, but a welcome sight nonetheless, for they were lucky they had even made it into the city. Melisende had to give up her amulet to a snivelling little mole of a man who claimed to be a toll collector. Ronan had wanted to intimidate his way through, but had relented when Melisende gave him a stern look as she held up the amulet. He hoped she had coin, for he knew her honour would not let her find passage as a stowaway.

In any case, if she didn't have any coin, she would have plenty of time to find some, for there weren't any ships heading for Ferelden until a few days. Could be sooner, could be later. The damn sailors were very petulant and haughty. Ronan had wanted to smack them, but they were outnumbered. For once, he hadn't acted brashly. His brother would have been proud of him, he thought with a surprising stab of regret. He could still be. Tristan was not dead. He knew it. If the gods had wanted to take away one of Siofra's sons, then it would have been Ronan. He was the least important.

The day was ending; the streets were being engulfed by long shadows. They should find somewhere to stay. From what he had heard when his clan passed through the city, the streets were not a nice place to be at night.

"We should find some shelter." Melisende said, as if reading Ronan's thoughts. "Do you know of a place?"

"No." Ronan replied. "But we should get out of the streets sooner rather than later. Maybe Lowtown would be a good place to look?"

"Right." Melisende replied. She worriedly clawed at her empty pant pockets. "The lack of coin in my pockets is unsettling."

"Don't worry about it." Ronan said with a grin. "I never do."

Melisende shook her head, but grinned back heartily. The beautiful sight nearly made him stop in his tracks. He hadn't seen her dimples for a while now. It was refreshing.

They wandered about aimlessly, not sure where Lowtown was. They ended up making their way up a long and steep set of stairs. From those stairs they went straight and ran into a mean looking pack of thugs. They didn't even have a chance to exchange words before the thugs swarmed them. Ronan unsheathed his sword and held Melisende back safely behind him.

"This is worse than the back alleys of Denerim," Melisende remarked as she seemed to Ronan to be counting their foes.

"Let me handle this." Ronan said, darting forward to engage a thug in battle.

The thugs sneered at him from below their hoods. They obviously thought it amusing that a one handed elf was going to take them all on. Well, they wouldn't be laughing for long, Ronan promised. Elgarnan would guide his blade and lead him to victory. He struck out swiftly at one of the thugs, cutting open his belly and shedding the man's innards. Surprised, the other thugs were momentarily caught in a freeze. Melisende swooped in and took hold of the dead thug's daggers and lined up beside Ronan, ready to fight off the rest of the thieving thugs. The thugs awoke from their stunned revelry and pounced on them.

It was over quickly. The city thugs had nothing over a seasoned Grey Warden, and Ronan proudly noted, over himself. He gazed at his sword wondrously and gave the bloody blade a kiss. He could still fight. The gods had answered his prayers.

"That was gross." Melisende said as she watched him curiously, gesturing towards her lips. "You've got, um, _stuff_ on your lips."

Ronan grinned and then wiped his face with his sleeves. He did have guts on his face, but he didn't mind at the moment. "The battle frenzy returned to me. Did you see that?"

"There was never any doubt in my mind that you could fight." Melisende replied as she leaned over a dead thug and cut away a money pouch with a stolen dagger. Ronan did the same. He found it oddly comforting that Melisende had believed in his abilities the whole time he had doubted them. Of course, he had only battled a couple of half starved thugs, but he wasn't going to let that fact bring him down. He reached into the pouch he had cut away from the thug.

"See," Ronan said, holding up some coin. "I told you not to worry."

Melisende rolled her eyes. She looked toward what looked like a tavern, though Ronan couldn't be sure, what with the effigy of a man in a noose hanging from the front of the building.

"I need a drink." Melisende said. She walked slowly toward the tavern.

"What about these corpses?" Ronan asked, looking over the destruction they had wrought.

Melisende shrugged. "I'm sure the city guard will be grateful that they are dead. Otherwise, who cares? I'm thirsty."

...

A warm fire burned in the corner of the tavern, illuminating the large room in a warm glow. Candles were lit on all the tables, inviting patrons to sit and relax with a jug of ale. The tavern's serving girl made her rounds, fighting off wandering hands and drunken slobs. A playful melody rang out from somewhere in the room.

Melisende had already had a few drinks. She knew she shouldn't be wasting that precious coin they had found on drink, but she couldn't help it. Ronan sat across from her, uninterested in his surroundings. He wasn't drinking. _Well, kudos to him_, she thought.

"Is it really wise for you to waste all the coin we _found_ on drink?" Ronan asked. _Ugh_, he was reading her mind again. She had a real good buzz going and he was killing it. She called on the serving girl, Norah, to send another drink over. Ronan shook his head.

Her tongue rolled out her thoughts unbidden. "I am no longer the little girl who believes the world to be made of kittens, rainbows, and unicorns. Neither am I the young woman who believes the world could be a better place if one just hoped and dreamed enough about it." She really didn't want to say anymore, but she couldn't stop herself. "No, I am just a hopeless husk of a person who has lost all faith in everything I ever believed in, and I'll be damned if I let you stop me from drinking this wonderful ale."

It wasn't really that great, actually, she thought as she looked at the gruel-like ale. But she had tasted worse. Ronan just stared at her curiously. Maker, why did he have to look at her like that? If they weren't in public she might have to jump him again. Frustrated, she took a long gulp of the bitter ale. _Sorry, Nathaniel_.

And what had she just said anyway? Did it even make any sense? The ale was getting to her quicker than she thought possible. The thought that she would sooner forget everything that had happened thanks to the dreadful ale was oddly comforting.

When she looked up again, a woman was standing before her. A woman with no pants, her mind noticed.

"Well, hello kitten," the woman said. "It's been a while."

Her vision wasn't quite clear as it could be. She squinted at the woman. The busty, dark skinned woman wore a smirk on her face. Her hair hung loose in waves to her shoulders, her forehead covered by a blue bandana. Her medallion like earrings dangled as she tilted her head slightly. Melisende remembered this woman, very faintly, though, for she had promised to forget her. "Isabela?"

Isabela smiled. "Surely you haven't forgotten me, not after the fun we had?"

Melisende groaned. She stole a glance at Ronan. He had the most puzzled look on his face. Well, it would stay that way. She was never going to explain Isabela to him. She turned back to Isabela, who had casually invited herself to take a seat at their table. "I was piss drunk... it's not going to happen again."

Isabela shaped her lips into a slight pout. "Too bad."

"You and her?" Ronan asked.

Melisende rolled her eyes and took another long gulp of the awful ale. "I was drunk, I was angry," Melisende could hear her words coming out slurred. "And she was there."

Melisende could barely remember Isabela, for she had blotted it out of her mind. She had been angry, because of Alistair. She had just found out that he was a royal bastard. He had kept that secret from them all. He hadn't even trusted her enough, loved her enough, to tell her. That was in Redcliffe. When they went to Denerim to find Brother Genitivi, she had somehow ended up in the Pearl. _Zevran_. She had gotten drunk. Somehow she had ended up in a room with both Zevran and Isabela. She didn't remember much, but it made her blush to think of that time. She had sworn Zevran to secrecy. She must have forgotten to make Isabela swear the same. It was not a moment she was proud of. It was terribly out of character for her to do something like that. Or was that really who she was? She had after all, thrown herself onto Ronan a few nights ago.

"With a woman?" Ronan asked incredulously.

Isabela leaned over toward Ronan and lightly touched his face. Melisende cringed. "So young, so handsome, and so innocent. Who is your friend Melisende?"

Ronan angrily brushed Isabela away. "I'm no innocent."

"Like I always say, men are only good for one thing; women are good for six." Isabela turned to Melisende with a naughty grin. "Don't forget the elven assassin..."

Melisende groaned again. "Enough, Isabela!"

Isabela tilted her head up and away, her earrings dangling as she did so. "Fine. But really, who is your friend?"

"None of your business, _shem_."

"Oh, one of those?" Isabela placed her arms on the table, leaning on her elbows, her breasts threatening to spill out of her shirt. "I should have known, with those sexy tattoos on your face."

Melisende felt jealous of all things. She didn't want Isabela hitting on Ronan. It was disgusting. She slammed her ale on the table and glowered menacingly at the woman. Isabela didn't seem to notice.

"Did you lose your pants?" Ronan mocked Isabela. He was looking at her legs. This wasn't good.

Isabela laughed. "I don't believe in pants. I like to feel the breeze on my..."

"Alright, I get it." Ronan cut her off.

"Oh, he's so cute." Isabela turned to Melisende. "He reminds me of a friend's little brother. Where did you find him?"

"I am not a thing." Ronan said angrily.

Melisende couldn't take it anymore. She arose from her chair swiftly. A little too swiftly for she nearly stumbled over in her drunkenness. "I'm going to rest," she made it a point to glare at Isabela. "Alone."

"Goodnight, then." Isabela said. "Maybe next time we run into each other..."

"Don't count on it." Melisende said, stumbling towards the stairs of the tavern.

"That wasn't what I was going to say." Isabela shrugged innocently. As Ronan got up from his seat to follow, Isabela held him back. "You look after her. She's a good girl."

Melisende didn't notice Ronan's reply, if he had any, for she was too busy stumbling up the stairs, swaying to and fro into the walls. Soon enough, she found herself being steadied by Ronan. _Don't touch me_, she thought. She tried to shrug him off, muttering nonsense under her breath.

"You'll fall on your face," she heard Ronan say. He sounded far away, though he was right next to her. She must be drunker than she thought.

She found herself being led into a room with cheap looking cots and ratty blankets. The walls were painted with cold, tortured looking humans. She pointed at them. "That is how I feel."

Ronan led her to a cot and bade her sit down. She did better than that, she jumped onto the bed and lay down. The cot was very creaky. It almost made her want to laugh. But mostly, it made her want to cry. She wanted to go home. "We need to find passage as soon as possible," she heard herself say. "I need to go home."

Ronan crouched by her protectively. He was being so nice to her. He confused her sometimes. One moment he was insufferable, the next he acted like a big teddy bear. But she could only have one teddy bear, and he was back home.

"It was a mistake..." Melisende said.

"What was?" Ronan asked.

Melisende closed her eyes. The ale was her truth serum. She couldn't stop her tongue from forming words from her thoughts. "I love Nathaniel. I betrayed him... for what? For nothing..."

Ronan's brow furrowed in thought, or was it anger?

"So it meant nothing to you? Was I just there, like Isabela?" he asked her. Rather petulantly, she thought.

"Nathaniel means everything to me. And Tristan, he should be alive. You are... nothing..." Melisende buried her face in the tattered pillow, unaware of what she was saying. She was so tired. She didn't notice Ronan leaving.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Are we really going to ransom off the Hero of Ferelden? It is so... shameful." Leandro asked, leaning over the ship railing to look down at the sea.

Red glanced quickly at Leandro. "You always were a good boy Leandro."

"I think you meant to say _man_." Leandro turned to Red with a grin.

Red chuckled. "Yes. You are a good _man_."_ One who shouldn't be here, who should instead be making something of himself. _"I tell you, you don't belong in this life. Leave."

"No." Leandro replied sternly. "You know I cannot."

How many times had he tried to get Leandro to leave? He had lost count after a hundred. "I will cover for you. I know how to handle Fausto."

Leandro shook his head with fury "The hourglass is running out for Fausto. His time is running out, as quickly as the sand falls to the other side. I will be there when that happens. I will gladly be there."

Red sighed. "But until then, you can leave. Your thirst for vengeance is not worth staying in this life."

"Ha, and where would I go where he wouldn't find me? Why would I let you risk yourself for me? No, you know I will stay by your side. You are the only family I've got. You were always the only one who cared." Leandro regarded him with gratitude. The boy, or man, put too much faith in him.

Red sighed, guiltily. The reason he was the only family Leandro had was because he had run. Leandro's mother paid the price. He couldn't stand that happening to Leandro. He guessed that was partly why he never tried again. But Leandro was long a man now, as much as he still wanted to think of him as that little boy Ileana had left behind. And he was right; Fausto's time was running out. The power was shifting in Llomerryn. He gripped Leandro by the back of the neck. "You are the only good man in Llomerryn."

"And how do you think I learned to be this way, Red?" Leandro playfully shoved Rory's arm from his back.

Red caught a glimpse of Einar from the corner of his eye. Einar was frowning at the two suspiciously. He shook his head. The dwarf was always up to something.

...

"Will you take the blindfold off now?" Tristan asked Red. When he had been left alone again, he had tried to remove the blindfold with his free hand, but it had zapped him. There definitely was some sort of spell on it. He was tiring of sitting in the darkness. It was unnerving him. At least the pain in his head had diminished to a dull throb.

"So you can shoot lightning bolts out of your eyes? Or freeze me with your icy glare?"

"You sure have some strange ideas about me."

"Oh, well, you know, one can never be too careful around mages." Red sarcastically replied.

"Says the mage." Tristan couldn't help grinning. "Or are you really a Templar after all?"

"Perish the thought young man. It would be a sad, sad day if I were a Templar."

"Keep deflecting my request with your pathetic attempts at humour and you'll discover my patience soon at an end."

"Oh? And what happens then?" Red goaded him.

"Do you really want to find out?"

"No, but I hardly think you can do anything to me, seeing as I sapped your mana for the time being."

"Right... but you left my sword hand free. Do you want to gamble with that?"

Red laughed. "Whatever happened to today's youth? No respect for the older generation..."

"When that older generation ties me up and blindfolds me with magic, I hardly think they deserve my respect." Tristan grumbled.

"Fine, fine. I'll take it off." Would the Grey Warden recognize him, remember him? Somehow, he hoped that he would.

...

Red crouched by Tristan's side. He felt the mage's hand touch the blindfold lightly. And then Red was swiftly gone from his side, as quick as a summer breeze. Tristan used his free hand to quickly slide the blindfold down his face. Light flooded into his eyes. Relieved, he winced for a second as his eyesight adjusted to the sudden change in light.

Red hovered in front of him, a dark blot for the moment. As his vision cleared, however, Tristan nearly gasped out loud. Red was _the mage_. The mage from his dreams and the mage who had cured Siofra. He stood before him, scrutinizing Tristan as Tristan was doing the same to him.

"I know you." Tristan remarked with a forced calm, a forced steadiness to his voice. Why was he so sodding nervous all of the sudden?

"I thought you might." Red replied.

"You crept into the palace to save..."

"The Dalish woman. I know."

"Why?"

Red shrugged and turned away from Tristan's sharp and curious gaze. "I had my reasons."

"And you will not tell me?"

"Maybe later."

"Later? You have been so free with your words and now you want to keep them from me? We are almost at Val Royeaux now. Tell me now, for there is no later, is there?" Tristan struggled to keep control.

"I've told you enough about myself."

"Why didn't you want to be seen? You cast a spell on the servants, even on her son. Why?"

Red sighed and then walked away from Tristan. He opened the door to the cabin.

"Forget it then." Tristan grumbled.

Red left the room. _Like he has something to hide_, Tristan thought in anger.

...

Red stared off across the sea. It was harder than he thought, getting Tristan to admit he was Siofra's son without actually coming out and asking. Maybe he should just do that. But he was afraid, afraid of what Tristan would think of him. Deep down inside, however, he knew the man was his son. Why he needed confirmation, he didn't know.

And now this. The young elf by Siofra's sickbed was her son. It was foolish of him to think that she wouldn't have moved on with her life. She had, after all, thought him dead. And he had, like a coward, run away. The amount of regrets he had about his life, why they could fill up this very ship, and probably sink it too.

Einar snuck up behind him, startling him out of his miserable thoughts. "So how much you think this Grey Warden will fetch us?"

"We're not ransoming him off."

"What? The boss will be pissed..."

"Fausto will never know about this. Once we get to Val Royeaux, we're cutting him loose."

The dwarf grumbled. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Red glared at Einar, and then made his way back to the cabin. He hoped he knew what he was doing too, but his fears had nothing to do with Fausto.

...

"I'll tell you something now." Tristan blurted out as Red came into the cabin. He looked at him closely – those eyes, that nose, chin, mouth, they were all Siofra's. Tristan had to be Alim. But why he went by another name, that was a mystery to Red. But he supposed he shouldn't be the one to talk, he himself had a new name.

"I won't stop you." Red said.

Tristan looked hesitant, but as he looked up at Red, a fire of determination seemed to light in his eyes. "When I was an orphan in Denerim," Tristan began. Red had to sit down. _An orphan?_ "the older boys used to tease me, push me around. They made fun of my tattoo, called me a barbarian. I was miserable. I was a small boy back then. I couldn't do anything about them. Until one day, in a back alley."

Tristan paused and looked away from Red. He looked lost in his thoughts, as if he was reliving his past right there on the ship. "I met a mage. A young mage, clinging to the shadows, but who for some reason, emerged out of those shadows to talk to me, a pitiful little boy." Tristan raised his free hand, studying it, turning it over palm up. "He showed me how to make fire from the palms of my hand. And then he left, frightened off by the Templars. I thought the Maker had sent him to me, to show me how to use my gift. For magic is a gift, not a curse. But I didn't use that gift wisely. I got sent to the Circle Tower."

Red sat thoughtfully on his chair. So Tristan was an orphan, sent to the Circle Tower, how could that be? Tristan didn't seem to be finished yet, however.

"Red, do you know who that mage was?" Tristan's eyes stared into his own. Red couldn't look away, even though he wanted to. The look, it was so... accusing? Red shook his head, puzzled and uncomfortable.

"It was you." Tristan said, continuing to stare at him.

The words hit Red like a brick. The memory came flooding back to him. He remembered it now. The boy, dirty and ragged. Red had sensed the power in him, had been drawn to him, but he hadn't realized it had been his son.

"Do you remember?" Tristan asked him, staring at him still.

Red shrugged and then quickly looked away. "Maybe..." he was a horrible liar, but he left it at that. Tristan sighed, but said nothing else.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Laughter echoed from the hallway into the room where Melisende rested. Turning over, she tried to drown out the terrible sounds with a pillow. How dare people laugh when she felt so horrible? Her heart felt like it was about to break, her head wanted to explode, and she felt sick to her stomach. Moaning in pain she finally sat up.

There was nobody else in the dusty room above the tavern. She wondered where Ronan had gone off to. And then she remembered what she had said.

"Andraste's bloody knickers, what have I done?" she asked as she stood up from the creaky old cot. _You are nothing_. That was not what she had meant to say. It hadn't come out right. No wonder Ronan had left. How could she be so cruel and mean? "Stupid, stupid Melisende."

What had she meant to say? _You are nothing I ever imagined. You are a great friend. _She had wanted to thank Ronan, but it hadn't come out right. Her inebriation had muddled everything.

She punched the wall. The wall with the tortured looking humans. It was the only thing she could think of doing. They deserved to be taken out of their misery. She welcomed the pain as it tore through her knuckles.

Melisende had to find Ronan. She had to make it right. She tore through the room, tearing open the door, letting it slam into the wall. She didn't care if she made a racket. She would never forgive herself for the stupid words that had come out of her mouth. Why had she turned to the bottle? Why had she drowned herself in ale until she was a slobbering drunkard? She thought she was over that.

She turned the corner sharply and ran straight into a solid figure, her hands grabbing onto fur-covered shoulders to stay steady. She looked slightly up into familiar amber coloured eyes.

"Anders?" she managed to ask through her surprise.

Anders nodded and then pulled her back into the room she had come from. He closed the door.

"Isabela told me there was a Grey Warden in town. It sounded like someone I knew."

"You know Isabela?" Melisende asked. She hoped Isabela had not mentioned anything about the Pearl. It would be too embarrassing. It was enough that Ronan knew... _Oh, Ronan_.

Anders shrugged, a slight smile crossing his face. "Sort of. We run with the same... crowd."

Melisende watched Anders thoughtfully. It seemed like he had lost some weight. "So this is where you ran off to?"

"I had to go." Anders replied. "I couldn't be a Grey Warden anymore. I am sorry."

"But how you left... I couldn't believe it." Melisende said, thinking of the carnage Anders had left behind.

"I... wasn't myself."

"You don't look yourself. You look... sad, tormented. Much like these damn drawings everywhere in Kirkwall." Melisende pointed to the wall.

Anders chuckled. "Well, you're not the only one who's said so. I really should look into a looking glass more often."

It was good to hear Anders laugh, but Melisende couldn't bring herself to do the same. She cracked a pitiful smile to her old friend, but could do no more than that. She hoped he wouldn't notice. "If you didn't want to be a Grey Warden anymore, then why are you here, talking with me?"

"I wanted to make sure you were alright. Isabela said you were here with an elf, but that you didn't seem yourself." Anders explained. He looked around as if he was expecting the elf to be around.

"I am alone." Melisende said, trying to stay calm. As if Isabela knew her. But she couldn't hide from Anders. He knew her too well. He looked concerned.

"What's wrong?" Anders asked. "What brings you to Kirkwall?"

"A terrible thing." Melisende replied, her voice catching. "Oh Anders, Tristan... I don't know if he is alive."

"You haven't found him yet?" Anders asked, his amber eyes crinkling up in concern.

"I did find him. We were on a ship, on our way to the Anderfels..." Melisende took a deep breath. She didn't know if she could say it out loud. She could feel tears forming in her eyes. "A dragon sunk it. He may be dead..."

Anders walked over to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "You survived. Perhaps he did too."

"I have to get back. I have to know the truth."

"It would be a curse on the world if that man were dead. He is a mage, a great mage and a hero that could bring justice for us all." Anders said.

Melisende felt his body tense. She looked at him curiously. The way he had said that, it had sounded so vehement, so full of loathing, for what?

"Sorry, I'm rambling." Anders said. His body relaxed. Even so, Melisende felt slightly uncomfortable and broke free from his comforting arms.

"Anders, you are a good friend. You risk a lot coming to see me." Melisende said. She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I never saw you."

"Thank you, Mel, but somehow, my presence here won't be secret for long, if it isn't already out. Many people already know I am a Grey Warden, or was. You don't have to protect me."

"Even so, not everybody would be so kind." Melisende thought of Clotilde and Marcel. They probably would have turned him in to the Templars. But Melisende couldn't do that, could never do that to a friend. She had to admit though, that there was something off about him. She didn't think he had purposely caused all that carnage on the plains. Or perhaps she just didn't want to think that.

"A pretty girl, the right to shoot lightning bolts at fools, have you found that here Anders?" she asked, remembering something he had said to her once.

"Can a mage even find those things in the world we live in?" Anders replied with a question of his own.

Melisende felt that she was talking to a stranger at the same time that she was talking to her old friend, if that were even possible. He not only looked thinner, wearier, but his voice had lost its playfulness. "You have changed."

"No," Anders replied, "I have focus now. Justice is a part of me."

"Justice?"

"I took the spirit into me."

"Oh Anders, why would you do such a thing?" Melisende did not really understand what Anders was saying. How could he take a spirit in? Wouldn't he become an abomination? Or was this similar to Wynne?

"He was a friend in need." Anders said. "Tell me you, of all people, wouldn't do the same?"

"You got me there." Melisende admitted. She did go to great lengths for her friends. "But, he's a _spirit_. I don't know much or anything really of... weird stuff, but surely that cannot be a good thing?"

"No, you clearly don't understand," Anders said rather impatiently. He sighed. "Sorry. Let's just leave that as it is. What are you going to do? Do you need help getting home?"

Melisende fingered her pouch. It was not very heavy. She had used up a lot of coin on the dreadful ale. She didn't think she would have enough coin for passage. "I'm not sure I can make it home."

Anders reached into his pockets and pulled out a few silvers. He held it out to her. "Here, a gift for an old friend."

"I cannot accept that Anders." Melisende made no move toward the coin. Anders looked like he needed the coin more than she did.

"Take it," Anders pushed, and with a smile, continued, "Ser-Pounce-a-lot needs you."

"Ser-Pounce-a-lot needs you, Anders."

"I can never go back."

Melisende sighed sadly and accepted the coin. "Fine. But I will find a way to repay you."

"It's a gift. It doesn't need repayment." Anders said.

"I should go. Thank you." Melisende stepped closer to Anders and hugged him, perhaps for the last time. She didn't think she would ever come back to this dreadful city. "Take care," she whispered as she let him go and left the dreary room over the tavern.

...

Melisende searched around town for Ronan, but she could find no trace of him. She found a ship that was sailing to Highever within hours. Her mind went back and forth trying to decide whether she should take ship or stick around and find Ronan. The sailors warned her that there was no guarantee when the next ship to Ferelden would leave. She needed to get home, but she didn't want to leave Ronan behind.

Perhaps he preferred it that way. She had been cruel to him. Maybe it was better that they just go their separate ways. She remembered Tristan warning her about Ronan, how he would hurt her. She wanted to laugh at the irony. She was the one who had hurt him. She wanted to laugh, but she couldn't. Instead, she boarded the ship to Highever, to home. Though it didn't feel right, with her heavy heart and a bag full of worry. Ronan was on his own, easy prey for bandits. And there seemed to be a lot of them in the Free Marches.

He could take care of himself. Ronan was a great warrior. His wanderlust would subside and he would return to his clan. She would see him again, she tried to reassure herself as the ship sailed away from the City of Chains.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Val Royeaux stood before them. Tristan barely noticed the skyline, didn't register if it was any different from Denerim. All he could think of as the _Empress's Wine_ pulled into port was how odd the whole situation was. He should have been arriving here on a different ship, under different circumstances. That dragon had taken everything he knew and tossed it into the sea.

Red took him by the arm, leading him off the ship. It was good to be out of that damn cabin, to be unbound again, but he didn't feel as happy as he should be. He glanced back at the ship one last time. Leandro, the Antivan, watched with interest, and the dwarf, Einar, looked quite angry. Both stayed behind on the ship.

On the harbour, Red let him go. Tristan rubbed his wrists, his arm, where Red had gripped him tightly. The strange Orlesian tongue rang out all around him, their colourful dress blinding his eyes. His chest tightened, it became a little hard to breathe as he realized that he was there, finally, but without his good friend Melisende, Ronan, even Clotilde and Marcel.

"You are free." Red said, turning away.

A strange feeling of emptiness crept over Tristan at that moment. A few months ago, he would have been delighted to hear those words – _you are free_. It was true, he was free. The Wardens probably had written him off as a casualty of the shipwreck. He could, if he wanted to, disappear forever and live a peaceful life.

Tristan wanted that fantasy to become truth, in spite of everything. But he had a duty. He owed the First Warden an explanation. He might be shamed, thrown out of the order for all he knew, or worse. But it was his duty. Still, he hesitated. He looked back at Red. The man had saved his mother. He owed him. He hadn't been able to save Melisende, Ronan, Clotilde, Marcel, and all the other people on that ship. He could save Red.

Red gave a slight nod of his head and began to walk away, to dissolve into the thick crowd of Orlesian brightness.

"Wait." Tristan called out. Red stopped and Tristan walked over to him, shoving his way through the crowd. "I can help you."

Red raised his brow in surprise, or was it suspicion? "Oh?"

"I can feel that you are a good man. You deserve to break free of this life."

"And what of your First Warden?"

"He can wait."

"But why would you help me?"

"I owe you."

"No, you don't." Red turned swiftly around, ready to depart to whatever business he had come to Val Royeaux for in the first place.

"You not only saved my life, having me dragged out of the water, even if it was for... disreputable intentions." Tristan called out. "You saved Siofra, my mother."

Red stopped in his tracks. He did not look back, but neither did he move forward.

"I don't know why you saved her, but you did. I owe you. Let me repay you with my aid." Tristan continued. He caught up to Red, stood in front of him. The man looked... beaten.

"Siofra is your mother?" Red asked quietly.

Tristan nodded. "Let me help you."

Red hesitated and then shook his head. "I won't let you get involved in this. Be gone." Red stalked off yet again.

Tristan found himself rooted to the ground, unable to follow. "So stubborn," he muttered under his breath. He turned his gaze to the ship that had been his prison for the past few days. Mischief dancing in his eyes, he took off towards it.

...

Red returned to the _Empress's Wine_ a few hours later, grumbling, muttering under his breath about Orlesians and their fancy silks and wines. The bastards had given him a hard time, trying to get him to lower his prices for the smuggled goods, but he didn't back down. He wasn't running a charity. They always tried, but in the end, it was Red who left with a heavier purse. In the end, the Orlesians always took their chances with him. No other smugglers were as kind as he was, nor known to be a blood mage. He snickered at the thought. He rarely used blood magic, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt.

Rory walked by Einar, tossing him the bag of coins to put away. He nodded to Leandro as he passed him, another nod to Captain Alaric, the leathery old man, and nodded once more to Tristan. He continued walking, and then halted as his brain caught up. _Tristan?_ He turned around and glared at the man questioningly.

Tristan had the nerve to grin, like he had done something incredible. "I am your prisoner again."

_Incredibly foolish_, Red thought as he stalked up to Tristan. He gritted his teeth, sucked in his breath, angry words threatening to burst from his mouth. But Leandro gripped his arm and pulled him aside before he could say anything.

"This Grey Warden says he will help us get rid of Fausto. Would this work? Why would he help us?" Leandro asked.

"He says he is indebted to me..." Red's fingernails dug into his palms. He didn't want this to be happening. He wanted to hurl lightning bolts into the sky.

"Then let him repay this debt. He is a great warrior mage. We can break free of Fausto's madness once and for all. I know this is what you want Red." Leandro looked at Red hopefully.

"It may be what I want, and what you want," Red replied. He knew Leandro had unfinished business with Fausto. It pained Red to look at Leandro sometimes. He had always reminded him of the son he never knew, but more importantly, it was Red's fault that Leandro was stuck under Fausto's thumb, no better than a slave. "But what about Einar? Did you forget about him?"

"Einar can be bought with coin and promises of more."

"Nevertheless, we all might die. I don't want to involve the Grey Warden. It's not his fight. And you, you can leave now. I won't betray you." Red couldn't let this happen. Why couldn't they see this?

"Never." Leandro said vehemently. "Fausto killed my mother, because of you. I never blamed you, you know that. But now is your chance, our chance, to make it right. Fausto's time is over. I stayed here by your side, not his. I wished to one day get my revenge, to backstab the bastard when he least expected it. He thinks I am loyal to him, when I have never been. We have to strike now. His madness grows every day..."

Hesitation, doubts scurried through Red's mind. He didn't want to get Tristan involved in this, to put his life in danger, for what? For his mess. And Leandro, he was not his blood, but he was more his son than Tristan was. He always knew it would come to this, but he still felt uneasy about it all. Somehow, he had always hoped Fausto, _Dex_ would just die on his own, or be removed by somebody else. As much as he wanted the bastard dead, he didn't want to endanger everyone else in the process of making that true. "I won't endanger you or him. This is my mess."

Tristan walked over, his manner set in confidence. "While your concern is touching, and I'll admit a little odd, it is my decision. I will help you whether you like it or not."

Red let out a long breath of exasperation, looking to the sky in supplication. They would not budge, they would not take no for an answer. They were grown men, he could not stop them. "Fine."

All he had to do was get to Fausto before they did.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The occupants of the _Empress's Wine_ were a rowdy bunch. They dined and drank with glee below decks. They were on their way back to Llomerryn. Excitement flowed through the air. They were going to mutiny, not against Captain Alaric, but against Fausto, their leader, the man at the top of the Black Plunder. Even Einar, the eyes and ears of Fausto, was going to join them. Leandro had been right, make him a promise of enough coin, and he would join in. They had also let him believe that he would lead the Black Plunder once Fausto was gone. Really, they didn't know what would happen, but they had needed the dwarf's cooperation.

"When I'm leader of the Black Plunder, you'll be making a lot more trips to Orzammar, old man," Einar lifted his cup of ale in the air excitedly, nodding to Captain Alaric "The carta could use some new life." Einar chuckled, making a point to look at Tristan.

"Nobody has taken Jarvia's place?" Tristan replied smugly.

"Jarvia sucked lizard eggs!" Einar proclaimed loudly.

"Did anyone ever tell you not to count your chickens before they hatch?" Captain Alaric chided.

"No, but I'm not counting chickens, I'm counting coin." Einar laughed, spilling some ale.

The group broke off into rowdy chatter, led on by the foul tasting ale. Leandro sat by Tristan in calm anticipation of the day they would reach Llomerryn. Tristan wasn't sure why Leandro had readily accepted his help, but he was thankful that the man had been able to convince Red to let him lend his aid. This Fausto man must have done something horrible to everyone on this ship for it hadn't been too difficult to sway everyone.

"The men are very eager for the blood of their leader." Tristan remarked.

"Fausto deserves everything that is coming to him." Leandro said, taking a sip of ale.

"I hope it never comes to that for me." Tristan said quietly. He thought of what it would be like to have his Wardens rebel against him. He didn't think it could ever come to that, but he hadn't been the best leader lately.

"You?" Leandro asked. He had heard what Tristan had said. "It is a crime to even mention your name and your title in the same sentence as that bastard Fausto."

Tristan sighed. He didn't really want to be chatting about the Grey Wardens or Fausto. Instead, he looked around the ship. He felt a sudden twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach as he thought of the dragon ripping through the hull of the last ship he was on. He hadn't even noted the name of that ship. He took a deep breath and the fear was gone. What were the chances the dragon would return, anyway? He needed to turn his thoughts to something else.

"Why is this ship called the _Empress's Wine_?" he asked Leandro.

"Ah, now that is a good story." Leandro replied with a grin. "This ship used to be Empress Selene's ship, until a few years ago."

"The Empress of Orlais?"

"The very one. The Black Plunder, led by Red, and," Leandro smiled proudly, "yours truly, stole it right from the harbour of Val Royeaux. There was not one casualty on either side. We just threw overboard the Orlesian fops guarding it."

"That easy?" Tristan asked.

"I don't call them fops for no reason. They were more concerned about looking good in their uniforms than guarding the ship." Leandro chuckled. "All the way back to Llomerryn, we drank all the fine wine we had found."

"The Empress's wine?"

"Ah, yes." Leandro replied. He had a dreamy look on his face. "It was a wonderful time, but Maker help me, the hangover, I would not want to relive that part."

"I'm guessing this foul stuff is not a remnant of that wine?" Tristan asked, looking questioningly at his cup of black ale.

Leandro laughed. "No, this shit is Captain Alaric's special brew." Leandro looked left and right, before quietly continuing, "Between you and me, Captain Alaric should stick to his day job."

Tristan laughed. "And what of Captain Alaric? How did he come to run around with the likes of, er, you people?"

Leandro was not insulted. "Ah, poor old Captain Alaric. His old ship, _The Yellow Lantern_, ran aground and cracked open on the wounded coast. He had captained that ship for thirty years. Red gave him this ship in compensation. He carries us to and fro. We're not raiders, we're smugglers. And occasionally thieves. But not raiders."

"Except for the time you stole the ship from the Empress."

"Ha, yes, the one exception." Leandro said. "Fausto orders the competition killed. We have to obey him. But most of the time, Red uses his blood magic to convince our enemies to run. Unless they are stupid, that is, and try to fight us."

"You're not afraid of him?"

"Red?" Leandro looked over to Red fondly. "No, no, no. He rarely uses his magic. But when he does, it's mostly for good. A rare sight where we are from."

"Is his name really _Red_?"

Leandro laughed. "No it isn't. It is a nickname I gave him when I was a child. He came back all bloody once. The name he used before that I don't remember. His real name is a mystery that only Fausto knows."

Tristan regarded Leandro thoughtfully. The man seemed awfully fond of Red. He wondered what kind of relationship they had. "Is he your father?"

"No." Leandro replied sadly. "I wish with all my heart that he was my father. My mother was a whore."

As if he had known they were talking of him, Red came closer to them, taking a seat across Tristan and Leandro. "Did I hear talk of mothers?"

"And whores," Leandro replied.

"Shame on you, Leandro." Red joked. "The Warden Commander surely does not want to speak of such seedy things."

Tristan shook his head. "I am Warden-Commander, not a chantry brother."

Red laughed. "That you are not. But on the subject of _mothers_, how fares Siofra, anyway?"

"Last I saw her she was well, thanks to you." Tristan answered. He was still puzzled as to how Red knew Siofra. "How do you know her?"

"I knew her long ago."

"From the little I know of my mother, she doesn't seem the type to leave the forest often."

Red shrugged.

"And you were in the tower. You're hiding something from me, Red, or whoever you really are."

Red grinned. "I am Red."

"If you don't want to tell me, fine." Tristan frustratingly replied. "But I am about to risk my neck for you. Don't you think you owe me?"

"Only thing is, there's nothing to tell, lad."

Tristan looked at Red suspiciously. He didn't believe the man. There was more to him than he was letting on. He had told him so much and now he was clamping shut? What was he trying to do? Drive him insane with wonder?

"You said you don't know your mother very well?" Red asked, his brows crinkled in thought.

Tristan stared at Red, considering his question. The man didn't deserve an answer for all his secrecy, but Tristan decided to indulge Red. Perhaps he would answer his own questions in return. "I was an orphan until a few months ago. All I had was a name that meant nothing to me."

"Amell?"

Tristan nodded.

"You know, the Amells are, or used to be, a bunch of fancy pants in Kirkwall."

"Why should I care?" Tristan shrugged. "My father is dead. I find it odd that I even have a mother."

Red watched Tristan thoughtfully. _He's hiding something_, Tristan thought, but didn't get a chance to prod him further as Red's attention was diverted by Captain Alaric. Red was a mystery to him, and for all that had happened, Tristan had a right to be angry with the man, but instead, he found himself offering the man aid. There was something about Red that put him at ease.

Tristan picked at his food. The chatter around him reminded him of traveling around Ferelden with his companions that first year as a Grey Warden – Alistair, Melisende, Zevran, Sten, Wynne, Oghren, Leliana, and Morrigan. Most of them had moved on, some of them he hadn't heard from in a long time. Some of them he had no interest in seeing again, unless it was for the right reasons. And now, perhaps he would never see Melisende again. The room felt stuffy, he felt dizzy. He needed to breathe, fresh air. He sat up quickly and made his way out of the room unnoticed.

...

Red walked silently along the ship, the moonlight guiding his way. The voices of the sailors and his men faded to a distant conversation the further he got from the dinner. He was looking for Tristan who had disappeared from the meal. Red cursed himself for not noticing sooner, but it wouldn't make any difference anyway. They were on a ship after all; it was not like the lad could go very far. And he didn't know what to say. He just wanted to make sure the man was alright. Tristan had looked distant.

A warm breeze blew onto the deck, rattling a loose barrel. Red saw him then, and nearly stumbled backward, for the sight was so heartbreaking. Tristan sat on the deck, his back to the barrel, his knees drawn up, and a hand upon his temple, all the while carrying a sorrowful look on his face. Red wasn't sure what to do. His son sat before him in a moment of pure grief. He almost wished he hadn't come outside looking for him.

"Red?" Tristan asked, looking toward him in the shadows. Too late to turn back, he walked into the moonlight.

"What is causing you so much grief?" Red ventured, taking a seat next to Tristan. Red remembered Tristan asking if there were other survivors of the shipwreck. Perhaps that was what was bothering him.

Tristan closed his eyes. "Sitting there with your men, hearing their banter, it reminded me of my friend." Tristan explained. Angrily, he continued, "Maker, she was too good for that. She deserved an honourable death, with her swords, not to drown. She shouldn't even have been on the damn ship. It's all my fault."

Red had no reply for that, but he could feel his son's pain. He knew what it was like to feel responsible for someone's death. He could lighten the mood with a joke, but somehow he didn't think that would work.

"And my brother. My _stupid brother_. The fool didn't deserve that fate either. My poor mother." Tristan paused. Siofra's other son was on the ship? This was terrible. Red felt weary. Siofra, his love, she had gone through enough in her life. She already believed that he, Rory, was dead. She didn't need to think that Tristan was dead as well as her other son. He vowed to himself that Tristan would make it home to her. He would not let Tristan die at Fausto's hands. He owed her that much at the very least.

"Not even the Orlesian Wardens deserved that." Tristan's fists were bunched at his sides, like he wanted to punch something. Or perhaps he was stopping himself from hurtling lightning bolts through the air. If he was anything like himself, then Red thought the latter truer than the former.

"Why do I come out unscathed? Why do others always pay for my mistakes?" Tristan continued, the frustration heavy in his voice. "Sometimes I wish I had never been born at all. Many lives would have been the better."

Red flinched at this. It reminded him of himself, of the young Rory. They were thoughts that passed through his mind many times before. But for Red, he had always believed the thoughts true. That could not be the case for Tristan. He had done so much for the world. He couldn't possibly wish that on himself.

"Do not wish that. You may not see it now, when your grief is so great, but you are alive, and Thedas is the greater for it. Never wish your life away." Red gently chastised.

"There must be something I could have done. I could have saved them..."

"You cannot save everybody. That is a sad fact of life." Red said apologetically.

Tristan covered his face with his hands. "I never asked for this..."

Red wasn't quite sure what Tristan meant, but he guessed it might have to do with the Grey Wardens. "When all this is over, go home, wherever that might be."

Tristan did not reply.

"Forget about the First Warden. Everyone thinks you are dead. You're free. It's the opportunity of a lifetime." Red suggested.

"But my duty... I've run before and it did not turn out good..."

"You've done your duty and more from what I hear. Just think on it." After a moment he patted Tristan on the back and arose. "Get some rest. We'll reach Llomerryn very soon."

Red made his way back to the shadows.

"Red," Tristan called out. Red turned around. Tristan wanted to say something, but nothing came, nothing but a grateful look.

"No problem, kid." Red said as he faded into the darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The wind was ferocious. It blew into her face, whipped her hair around violently, and was relentless. It hadn't stopped roaring since she was on the ship. It had rocked the ship back and forth, making her stomach turn. Melisende had been reminded of her last sea voyage. That terrible night, that midnight dragon that had tore her life apart. But Highever had been in view, calming her fears. She was on land now, but somehow the ground still lurched around her.

She walked slowly through town, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. Her stomach was still unsettled. Not only that, but Melisende felt like she had caught a chill. Her head pounded just as relentlessly as the wind. She shivered uncontrollably, though it was quite warm out. And she was weak. So very weak. Finally, she could walk no further. She slumped by a cold stone building.

A chantry sister walked by her then, regarding her curiously. But the woman didn't stop. Melisende rested her eyes. A few moments later, she felt a hand upon her forehead. She opened her eyes. It was the chantry sister.

"You are Bryce's daughter, and the Teyrn's sister," the chantry sister said.

Melisende found that she could only nod. Her throat burned. She wanted to just go to sleep. To forget everything that had happened. It began to rain. The feel of the raindrops on her face was soothing. Yes, she should just fall asleep in the rain; let it wash away all the pain.

Melisende felt herself drifting away as the chantry sister called out for help.

...

"Gilly!" Melisende whispered loudly as she watched the return column. She was hidden behind a stone statue of Andraste in the front courtyard. He didn't seem to hear her. She moved quickly ahead to a tree, making sure not to be seen. She picked up a small rock and bounced it off his steel chainmail. He looked to the tree with a frown, his red hair shining in the hot afternoon sun. She peeked around the tree and beckoned him forth.

Gilmore looked around him and then with a sigh stepped away from the stone road of the courtyard and onto the grass. "Mel, what do you want? Teyrn Cousland will be expecting my return."

"It's so nice to see you again, too, Gil." Melisende said with a grin.

"It is _Ser Gilmore_ now, by the way." Gilmore said, puffing himself up proudly. Melisende rolled her eyes. He was only two years older than her, but she was a better fighter than he was. Just because he had been knighted wouldn't make that fact false.

"I want to hear about everything that happened at court. Meet me later?" Melisende asked.

"Fine," Gilmore agreed, and then looked nervously to the column of men entering the castle. "I must go, now."

Melisende chuckled. "Go then. Father won't be happy if you're not there to take his gauntlets away."

"I don't do that anymore." Gilmore said, glaring at her. "I'm more important than a squire."

Melisende stuck out her tongue at Gilmore. Without waiting to see his reaction, she turned around and ran off toward the castle gates. She would wait by the stream for Gil. She wanted to hear of everything that happened, not at court, but on the road there. There were many bandits on the roads. She wondered if they had been attacked, and if Gil had been frightened.

She wouldn't have been frightened. But she wasn't allowed to do anything fun anymore. Not since she had become a woman. She glanced down furiously at her budding breasts, at the dress her mother made her wear. She was fifteen when her first blood came, a late bloomer, and the worst curse to ever befall her. She wished she had never bloomed at all. She couldn't do anything fun anymore. Her mother told her it wasn't proper to run around the castle like a little boy. And she wasn't to be a knight. Her parents had other plans for her.

Melisende made her way into the little stream just outside of the castle. Her parents would be furious with her for sneaking off, but she didn't care. If she had to marry whatever old man they chose, then she could at least have a little fun before her life took that turn. Besides, her mother was busy fawning over Oren. _Thank you Fergus, for providing mother with a constant distraction from me, _she thought as she kicked off her useless little shoes. They were muddy. That would get her into trouble. Shrugging, she pulled up the skirt of her dress and hiked it up to her knees to wade into the cool water.

The sun beat down on her. Sweat formed on her brow, her dress stuck to her back. "Forget this." She brought the skirt of her dress over her head and tossed it onto dry land. The stream was not too deep, but it was deep enough for her to sit down and dunk her head underwater. As she brought her head back up, her hair refreshingly wet and dripping, she spotted Gilmore staring at her curiously by her dress. She stood up, in only her smallclothes, and left the stream.

"Father let you go so soon?" Melisende said as she came to a halt in front of Gilmore.

Gilmore scratched his head and blushed. "Um... what did you want again?"

What was his problem? She leaped behind him and snatched his sword. "Did you encounter any bandits on your way to Denerim?"

"Give that back!" Gilmore turned around and tried to grab the sword back from Melisende. She dodged his attempt and laughed.

"You never spar with me anymore, _Rolly Gilly_." Melisende taunted. It was true. Ever since he had become a knight he was too important for her. She had liked sparring with him. It was hard enough getting Fergus to do the same now that he was married and a father and running around with father, learning how to be a teyrn.

"You're..." Gilmore said, reaching out again for the sword, but Melisende twirled away. "...a child. I am a man." He pouted.

Melisende danced around with Gilmore's sword, thrusting it into the air, pretending to be gutting a foe. She stopped and smirked at him. "Stop being unfair. If I was a man I'd be a knight too. And I'm hardly a child anymore, or my mother wouldn't be looking for suitors for me."

Gilmore gulped as he looked her over. "No, you're not a child. If anyone were to see us..." he looked nervously towards the castle.

Melisende laughed and pointed the sword at him. "Silly Gilly."

"Stop calling me that. I am _Ser Gilmore_ now." Gilmore said frustrated. He reached again for the sword. This time he caught hold of the hilt, but over Melisende's hand. He tried to pull, but Melisende pulled back. The knight did not go very far when she pulled, but when next he tugged, Melisende went tumbling into his chest, knocking the both of them over. Melisende lay atop of him, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. Gilmore's cheeks turned crimson, his brown eyes locked with her dark blue eyes.

The next thing Melisende knew, his lips were upon hers, his hand clutched the back of her neck. She jerked away and punched him hard in the shoulder. Instead of inflicting pain on him, she ended up placing her fist in her teeth, trying not to scream at the pain her knuckles felt. How stupid to punch his armour. She rolled away from him.

"I'm sorry, Mel." Gilmore said, sitting up.

"Ew," Melisende retorted. "What in the world were you thinking?"

Gilmore looked hurt at her words. He stood up and gathered his sword. "I was thinking how you were right; you're not a child anymore. And you are in your smallclothes. Stop teasing me." He began to walk away, and then glanced back at Melisende sitting on the ground with her fist in her mouth. "Maybe it's best if we are not friends anymore."

Melisende didn't know what to say to that, so she removed her fist from her mouth and flashed him her tongue. Gilmore shook his head and walked away.

That night, after she had gotten an earful from her mother about ruining her shoes and her dress and for sneaking away again, she lay in her bed, confusion muddling her thoughts. Gilmore had kissed her. She never expected that. More importantly, it hadn't been disgusting like she had said. Perhaps kissing _was _fun. She smiled to herself as she tried to think of a way to stay friends with Gilmore. After all, much like swordsmanship, practice made perfect. Kissing couldn't be any different.

...

The howling of a wolf startled her from her sleep. Its cry grew louder the longer it went on, a lamentation to the heavens. The wolf did not receive a reply.

Melisende opened her eyes. She found herself staring at a familiar ceiling. That couldn't be possible. She tried to blink away the vision. But it wasn't a vision. She sat up, her head reeling. She was in her room. The room of her girlhood in Castle Cousland.

She had been dreaming, of Ser Gilmore, of all people. Her thoughts hadn't veered toward him for a long time now. The proud young knight her father had squired had been just another victim of Rendon Howe's betrayal. She might not be alive today if he hadn't fought off the invaders. Funny how she should think of Gilly now. He had been a great friend, and now, now she had lost another great friend.

And Ronan. She had lost him too.

She groaned in frustration, but lay back at the pain that shot through her throat. It was so very sore. She doubted she could call out for any help.

Instead, she fell back into sleep, willing the pain, both physical and emotional, away.

...

Melisende's eyes fluttered open and closed time and again over the next few days. Her head pounded so hard that her eyelids hurt too. Sleep and time was the only remedy for her sickness. When she finally awakened for longer than a minute, she found that her throat no longer stung and her head only throbbed in a dull ache. She found she could move without feeling sick and so she sat up. She was surprised to see Nathaniel by her side, sleeping on a chair beside her childhood bed.

Her heart tugged in guilt and shame as she looked him over. It looked like he had recently arrived. Fergus, no doubt, had probably sent for him. Nathaniel's boots were muddy. She couldn't help but smile at the thought of him trying to clean them off. _Oh, Nathaniel_, she thought, _what have I done? _

Perhaps he had felt her scrutiny, for he stirred. His eyes opened and he smiled as he noticed that she was awake. He leaned in closer to her and placed a gentle hand on her forehead.

"The fever has broken." Nathaniel said. "You slept so quietly, you were so pale, so sickly looking. I thought I would lose you for real."

Melisende was reminded of another time, not so long ago, when she had awakened from an injury to find that Nathaniel had been by her side for most of the time. She had been restless in that sleep, saying things she never otherwise would have had she not been in delirium. She was grateful that had not happened again. She couldn't bear to hurt Nathaniel. He would never know about Ronan.

"It would take more than a cold to do me in." Melisende rasped out with a slight smile.

Nathaniel tenderly brushed away strands of hair from her face. His concern for her was tearing at her guilt. She looked away, a few tears spilling from her eyes. He turned her face back toward him and kissed her warmly on the mouth. When he broke away, he wiped the tears from her face.

"We thought you had drowned." Nathaniel said. "But here you are, my beautiful spitfire."

Melisende closed her eyes. He was making it awfully hard for her to lie. But she couldn't tell him the truth. She never would. If that made her a coward, then so be it.

"Were there other survivors?" she asked, petrified at hearing the answer.

Nathaniel looked pained. Why did she even need to ask? She knew what he was going to say before it ever came out. "No."

_Ronan was the only other survivor_. Everyone else was dead. Tristan was dead. Her breath caught in her throat. She choked back a sob. It was real then. Nathaniel enfolded her in his arms.

"I need some vellum," she whispered.

"Now?" Nathaniel asked.

"Yes, I need to write to someone," she replied. Brenna had to know the truth, of Tristan, of Ronan. She could inform Siofra. As Nathaniel let her go to seek out writing materials, she thought of what she would write. It would be the hardest letter she ever had to write.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

_You are nothing_.

Her words cut through his mind over and over again, tormenting him, threatening to drive him insane. The pain he had felt at those words, sometimes he thought it was worse than when he had woken up to find his hand missing.

Ronan should have known better. Melisende was a _shem'lin_. It never should have happened. He never should have let himself fall for her. _You are nothing_. She was right. Maybe that was why it hurt so much. Would he become like the beggar in Gwaren, an outcast from his clan, a forgotten warrior?

No, he couldn't think like that. It was not like him. He would show her, all of them, what _nothing_ could do. But it was hard. What could he do? He had been wandering the roads away from Kirkwall for days. He didn't know where to go and he didn't know what to do. He wished he hadn't left Ash behind. At least then, he wouldn't be alone.

His clan might be worried about him, but they might not be. What did he care anyway? They didn't need him. Life would go on without him.

The sky darkened. Ronan's lids grew heavy. He should find a nice spot to rest, to sleep. His dreams were his escape. He was the old Ronan there; the confident and _whole_ hunter. He leaned against a gnarled old tree and rested his eyes. His sword rested uncomfortably against his back. He reached back and held it to his side. He could feel himself drifting into sleep...

And then something tugged at his sheathed sword, the straps sliding away from his hand. He opened his eyes quickly. A small white wolf glared at him, the straps, the sword, hanging from its teeth. The wolf's eyes were violet. Before Ronan could react, the wolf turned and fled into the darkness, the sword with it.

_By Elgarnan, that wolf is dead_. Ronan arose swiftly to chase after the wolf. But it was dark and he had a hard time seeing where he was running. If only Ash were here, he would have mangled that pitiful wolf. He had to retrieve the sword; it was the most important thing he owned.

Not far off, Ronan spied a small campfire. He slowed his pace as he heard voices. Warily, he approached the campfire, sticking to the shadows.

"She goes to do her business and comes back with a sword!"

Laughter. Humans. _Bandits_.

Cursing inwardly, Ronan wondered how he was to get his sword back. He studied the campfire. There were not too many bandits – four _shems_, and a flat-ear woman. He saw no sign of the wolf. They didn't look so vicious. Perhaps he could reason with them. He stepped into the light of the fire, surprising the bandits.

"Where is the wolf?" Ronan asked as he stalked closer to the fire. "Where is my blade?"

One of the _shems_ arose from the fireside. He was lean, muscular, and looked tough as nails. He ran a hand through his short black hair and grinned. "We haven't seen any wolves around here. But, a blade..." he looked toward the flat-ear woman.

Ronan followed the man's gaze. The flat-ear stared at him. The tips of her ears poked through her long blonde hair. One front strand was braided. A scar ran from above her left eye down to her chin. Ronan noticed her eyes – they were violet, like the wolf's eyes were.

"_You_," Ronan said, "You took my blade, witch. Where is it?"

The man standing up chuckled. "Anwen? A witch? You are mistaken. You better watch what you are saying at _our_ fire."

Ronan turned his attention back to the man. "Only a witch can shapeshift. I want my blade back."

Anwen, the flat ear, stood up, dragging Ronan's blade with her. "I found it. But if it is yours, take it. I don't want the cursed thing."

She was about to toss it back to Ronan, when the man took it away from her instead. "If he wants it back, let him _take it_." The man sneered, staring at Ronan's missing hand.

Ronan tensed, anger boiling over him. Another _shem_ who thinks he is _nothing_. Oh, he will take the blade back and he would show no mercy to these fools. Except maybe to the witch, for she at least had the good sense to want to return the blade to him.

"_Ma halam_." Ronan spat out. _You are finished_.

The man laughed. "A duel, my Dalish friend?"

"I only duel with my blade." Ronan said, eyeing his blade in the man's hand.

"Then take it, and if you beat me, you can leave." The man suggested. "But, on your honour, you must not run like a coward when I hand it over to you."

"On my honour, you will regret this challenge."

The _shems _laughed.

"Get him, Vance!" one of them called out as the man, Vance, handed over Ronan's blade, hilt first.

Ronan waited impatiently as Vance gathered up a two handed greatsword from the ground behind him. It was a large, old-looking blade, made of steel, but the man wielding it emanated power and confidence. Ronan glanced at his sword, the sword of his grandfather, and smiled in delight. He would make Theron proud again tonight.

Vance stepped away from the fire and came closer to Ronan, circling him thoughtfully. Ronan narrowed his eyes, waiting for Vance to make the first move. It would be easier that way. Vance's blue eyes studied Ronan. Ronan sensed the hesitation in the man.

"Well, are you going to dance around me all night?" Ronan taunted.

Vance shook his head and flashing an impish grin, he swung his sword in a wide arc toward Ronan. Ronan slid to the left and with his sword, knocked Vance's sword harmlessly away from him. Vance nearly stumbled, but regained his balance. He immediately struck at Ronan again, but Ronan's sword met his own again in a clash of steel against ancient bone.

Ronan grinned as Vance hacked, swung, struck, and assaulted him to no advantage. Each time the man's greatsword was flung in his direction, Ronan either parried or dodged the thing.

"Quit fighting like a girl, Vance!" one of the _shems_ shouted out support.

They thought Vance was fighting like a girl? Ronan chuckled, thinking of Melisende. She would be insulted by this. If Vance was fighting like anything, it was like a drunken slob. Distracted by his thoughts, Ronan's sword was knocked out of his hand to the ground.

"It's an elf with one hand for Andraste's sake!" another laughed. "It's about damned time Vance!"

Cursing himself for allowing himself to become distracted, he ducked as Vance swung his sword toward him yet again. Ronan kicked at Vance's shin and then rolled over to his sword, picking it up as Vance tripped to the ground.

"Ooh and the elf plays it dirty!" a _shem_ hallooed.

_That was not dirty, that was smart_,Ronan thought as he arose from the ground and braced himself for an angry onslaught. Sure enough, Vance came angrily at him, swinging from left and right. It was all Ronan could do to counter each swing. Vance paused to catch his breath. Ronan took the opportunity to mount an attack of his own. He swung furiously at Vance, pushing him back, so far back that Vance was backed helplessly into a tree with nowhere to go. Ronan dug the tip of his sword into Vance's neck. A trickle of bright red blood appeared, rolling slowly down the man's neck.

"I yield!" Vance gasped, throwing his greatsword onto the ground.

There was a part of Ronan that wanted to kill Vance, to push the sword into his neck, to watch him die, to make the man pay for his words. To see him suffer, to watch the life drain out of him as his blood flowed out. He hadn't been able to do that to the Qunari who had taken his hand.

"He yields, elf. For Andraste's sake, let him go!" one of the _shems_ called out, arising from the fireside cautiously.

Ronan snapped back to reality. He wasn't a monster. Taking a deep breath he lowered his sword and backed away from Vance. He had won, his sword was his own again, and that was enough for him.

Vance slunk against the tree and spat on the ground, breathing hard, holding onto his knees to catch his breath. "What is your name, elf?"

Ronan glared at him. He was more than just an _elf_; he was Dalish, last of the _elvhenan_. He hated being referred to as _elf_. He pointed his sword menacingly toward Vance. "My name is Ronan, and you better not forget that, for the next time you call me _elf_, I will not be as merciful."

"Ronan, you don't have to tell me twice." Vance said as he stood up straight. "You know, we could use someone of your abilities."

"Come, sit by the fire," one of the other _shems_ gestured for Ronan to take a seat.

Ronan hesitated. He had his sword back. He had taught these bandits a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. He should be on his way. Their offer, however, sparked an interest in him. He took a seat. Vance followed.

"What is it that you do?" Ronan asked.

"We survive." Vance said, as if that would answer his question.

"And you need my sword arm for that?" Ronan pushed.

"The cities offer little to men like us, men who don't want to belong to the Coterie or the other mercenary, smuggling rings." Vance explained. It still wasn't enough for Ronan.

"Sometimes farmers need protection. So they hire us," said one of the other men.

"All we want is to earn some coin without having to hand it straight over to a boss." Vance said.

"So why don't you join the city guard, or the army, or the templars?" Ronan asked.

"Most of us here at this fire are riff raff, born and raised in slums like Darktown in Kirkwall. Nobody gives us a second look, a second chance. But out here, the farmers get desperate. They see the weapons we carry and that is all they need to see." Vance explained.

"Most of you? What about the witch?" Ronan glanced at Anwen. She did not seem to hear him. She did not seem to be hearing anything that was being said.

"Anwen is not a witch." Vance said sharply. "If you are going to be running with us, you will not say that of her anymore."

"Fine." Ronan said. They may say she was not a witch, but Ronan had seen the wolf's eyes. She had stolen his sword, in the form of a wolf. Ronan knew wolves, and that white one was not real. It was Anwen.

"Does that mean you will keep our company?" Vance asked eagerly.

Ronan considered the offer, but only for a moment. "Why not?"

The _shems _tossed him a wineskin in celebration. _Why not, indeed_. Running with _shems_ and a flat-ear apostate was the last thing he had planned. It went against all he had ever believed in. But what would a few more broken rules mean, now? He'd already broken the biggest rule by sleeping with a _shem_.

_You are nothing_.

_I am Ronan_.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Fausto's base of operations was a dark, dreary, and depressing tavern doubling as a brothel. The walls were black, the floors were black, and even the cheap furniture was painted black. Tiny windows ran along the tops of the walls, letting in some sunlight. What it lit up was downright seedy. The only color to be found in the place was on the skimpy purple clothing of the whores who filled the place. They sat in the laps of sailors and smugglers while the men gambled and gulped down ale. A few whores danced languidly, their eyes blank and their expressions dreamy, sweat glistening on their skin. Tristan had seen looks like that before, on men addicted to lyrium. He had been expecting nothing good of the place, but he was surprised at just how sleazy it actually was. And it was only one of many dens in Llomerryn. The seedy parts of Denerim certainly had nothing on this northern island.

He followed Red into the middle of the room. Leandro had a firm grip on his arm. He was tied up again, playing the prisoner. They were going to draw Fausto out from his rooms and then surround him. The dwarf Einar came waddling into Tristan's line of sight, carrying a wrapped weapon. Tristan eyed it suspiciously.

"Everybody out!" Red's voice boomed out over the room. The sailors and smugglers glanced up from their card games. Noticing from whose mouth the command came from, many of them grumbled. Reluctantly, they got up and left. Tristan thought that they must fear Red.

"Ladies, too." Einar said, slapping a whore in the ass as he pushed her away. Soon enough, the tavern was empty of all sailors, smugglers, and whores. Only Red, Leandro, Einar, Captain Alaric, and his men remained.

"Dwarf, kindly fetch the boss." Red commanded Einar. Einar placed the wrapped weapon on a counter top and made his way to a dark hallway in the back of the room. Red glanced at Tristan then, giving him a nod.

It seemed to take forever before Einar returned, but he did. Behind the dwarf came a dozen fierce looking cronies, and then finally, the mage named Fausto. Tristan could feel the tension in the air mount a notch. He felt Leandro's hate dig into his arm. He saw Red tense up. Fausto was a slight man, but was puffed up by greed and ego.

"This is the prisoner? The Grey Warden Commander?" Fausto said, halting in front of Tristan, scrutinizing him closely.

"He is." Einar replied.

"Red," Fausto turned to Red. "I am surprised you would hold such a hero prisoner. I didn't think your scruples would let you do such a thing."

"The Grey Wardens, maybe even the King of Ferelden will pay a handsome price to see him returned." Red said through gritted teeth.

"Or we can just kill him. Imagine the fame that would bring us. The slayers of the Hero of Ferelden would be no match for anyone." Fausto said with a sadistic smile. Tristan noticed how Red bunched up his fists, holding back for the moment.

"Kill me then." Tristan dared.

Fausto turned to him with a laugh. "No, first we will squeeze all the coin we can out of the hands of the Wardens, the king, whoever cares about you."

"Well, good luck with that." Tristan said. He couldn't help himself. The smug look on Fausto's face was enough for him to forget the plan and burn the mage right there. But his cronies stood ready, clutching their swords, their mauls.

"You've got a smart mouth." Fausto remarked and then looked at Red. "Reminds me of someone I know."

Red glared back at Fausto angrily. "Einar, show him the sword."

"My my, you men are like puppies today, trying to please your master." Fausto said as Einar took hold of the wrapped weapon and tossed it to Fausto. Fausto slowly unwrapped it and then held it up in the light. Tristan recognized it. His surprise was not feigned.

"That is my sword." Tristan said.

"You not only capture a hero, but you found his legendary sword as well? My my, Red, you have done well." Fausto said mockingly. He handed Vigilance over to one of his cronies and then walked slowly over to Red, away from his bodyguards. This was the time to leap to attack. Tristan waited for Red's words.

"This has gone on long enough Dex." Red said loudly. Fausto stopped in his tracks and looked all around him as his tavern came alive with violence. Tristan broke free of his bounds and cast a knockback spell on Fausto's cronies. He went up to the one with his sword and with his foot on the man's throat, tore Vigilance from the man's grip.

"I'll take that back now."

...

Red cursed as Fausto took fright like a child and ran to his backroom. Taking a quick glance at the carnage being wreaked by Tristan and the others on Fausto's cronies, he followed his old friend into the dark hallway and into the dark backroom. He shut the door behind him. Cutting himself, he sealed the door with a spell. There would be no interruptions to this.

Fausto leaned nonchalantly against his desk, his arms crossed in defiance. "You've finally grown a pair? It took you all this time to finally betray me?"

"Didn't you ever hear the old adage, what goes around, comes around?" Red replied, sarcasm and anger mingling in his voice. "You're only getting what you deserve. I should have done this a long time ago."

"And why didn't you?" Fausto spat angrily. "You were ever the coward. It was so easy to trick you."

"No, you are the coward. You killed innocent people, threatened innocent people to get what you wanted. It ends now."

"And you were right there, standing beside me, doing my bidding." Fausto threw back in his face. He was right. Red could have ended this a long time ago, should have, but he hadn't. He was a coward, but would be no more.

"Your day of reckoning has come, Dex. Ileana and all the other innocents you killed will be avenged. Rory Amell will stand by idly no longer."

"Rory Amell is dead." Fausto said.

"Not yet." Red said with a grin. He blasted a lightning bolt towards Fausto's head. He didn't need the demon to aid him in killing Fausto, though it badgered him, promised him swift and sweet vengeance. He would use the gifts the Maker had given him to do it, or he would die trying.

...

"Where's Red?" Tristan asked as he pulled his sword out of a man's gut, spilling gore everywhere on the floor. The floor was spotted with bright red blood. He looked around the room. The cronies had fought hard, but none of them had magic. Tristan's magical abilities had given them the upper hand. Most of them were dead, or had given up, surrendering sullenly to their former comrades. Not willing to risk a backstab, Captain Alaric's men bound the ones that were still alive.

Leandro brandished a pair of bloody axes and smoothed his hair out of his face. "I haven't seen him since before the battle broke out."

"He ran after Fausto." Einar said taking a breather on a chair, scratching his bald head with the hilt of his axe.

Leandro looked down the dark hallway worriedly. "Warden, we must help him."

Tristan nodded his agreement and followed Leandro to Fausto's room. The door was sealed shut. Leandro tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge.

"The fool!" Leandro exclaimed.

"He sealed the door with magic." Tristan said as he noticed the blue glow in the cracks of the doorframe.

"You cannot open it?" Leandro looked hopefully toward Tristan, who shook his head.

"No." Tristan said. "It was sealed using blood magic and can only be opened using blood magic. I don't know that kind of magic."

A great commotion was happening on the other side of the doorway. Red must be battling it out with Fausto. Tristan watched as Leandro pounded desperately on the door, frustrated, helpless to do anything. Tristan wished he could do something. Who knew if Red was winning the battle? All they heard were crashes and thuds.

"Is there any other way in?" Tristan asked.

Leandro shook his head. He hacked at the door futilely with his axes. The axes did nothing but bounce off harmlessly. Eventually the seal faded away. They broke open the door in a hurry. Fausto was sprawled on the floor, dead. Tristan felt relief as he spied Red sitting up by a wall. But he was clutching his side in pain and his head hung down in resignation.

Leandro rushed to Red, muttering something in Antivan.

"I'm finished kid." Red said through what sounded like painful gasps.

"Maybe I can help." Tristan offered, crouching by Red's side.

Red shook his head. "Don't bother... it's too deep."

"Red. Thank you." Leandro said with sadness and resignation as he spied the wound on Red's side. "Today you have led me to vengeance. My mother can rest in peace. Is there anything I can do for you? Bring a message to your family?"

"That won't be necessary Leandro..."

"Why not?" Leandro asked, confusion washing over his rugged features.

"He's right here..." Red looked at Tristan, holding up his hand toward him weakly. "My son." Leandro looked at Tristan in surprise.

Tristan couldn't quite believe what Red had just said. He narrowed his eyes, bunched his forehead, a quiet anger overcoming him. Was the man jesting at such a time, so close to death? "What kind of sick joke is this? My father is long dead."

"I am Rory Amell... I held you for the first and last time by Lake Calenhad over twenty five years ago. Siofra, your mother, put you in my arms..." Red replied, losing his breath.

"You knew all along..." Tristan said. It all made sense now. The story he had told him on the ship, it matched up with Siofra's story, though Red had left things out. Why hadn't he noticed this sooner? Red hadn't been nice to him, hadn't told him all those things, just for a favour. Red had saved Siofra because he had loved her once. And he couldn't have known all those things unless he was telling the truth, unless he was really Rory Amell. "Why tell me now?"

"Don't tell your mother I was alive..."

"You're not going to die." Tristan shook his head. "For Andraste's sake, use your blood magic!"

"Not enough... too far gone..." Red managed to rasp. The demon taunted him, extended a hand toward him, offering him aid. No, he must not give in. He held off all this time. He couldn't give in now.

"Then use my blood!" Tristan gripped his sword furiously and threatened to cut himself, but Leandro quickly grabbed hold of his arm, preventing him from making a cut.

"No. Let him go. It would be for nothing..."

Red sputtered. He reached out with his hand, his brown eyes seeing beyond Tristan and Leandro. He took one last breath and then he was gone.

"Maker watch over you." Tristan muttered over Red. He was stunned, shocked. He didn't know what to do. He had vowed to save Red, but he hadn't. Red had turned out to be his father. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or if he was awake. He stood up, too numb to do anything but stare at the carnage around him.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

At long last Denerim came into view. A beautiful sight after so long, after so much had happened. The _Empress's Wine_ drifted into the harbour, Captain Alaric hollering to his sailors to haul her in gently. Tristan sucked in his breath and then let it out in one shuddering release. He was home.

"Have you decided what you will do?" Leandro's voice interrupted his reverie.

Tristan had thought about what to do for so long that he felt his head about to burst. He should go back to Vigil's Keep before setting off for Weisshaupt. But he didn't feel like doing that anymore. He thought of Red's words to him. _Everyone thinks you are dead. You're free. It's the opportunity of a lifetime_. He could disappear, like he had always wanted to.

"I know what to do." Tristan answered Leandro with certainty. "But I need to ask a favour from you, Leandro."

"A favour? For Red's son?" Leandro asked in surprise. "I will do anything."

_Red's son, Rory's son_. He still didn't believe that he had been talking to his father the whole time he had been held captive. To think, if he could go back in time and tell himself of two years ago what his life would be like today, that he would save the world, father a child, find his own parents, and discover a brother, just to mention a few of the things that had happened, he probably would have laughed and called himself crazy. But it all had happened and now he felt weary. Red sure had pulled the wool over his eyes, but to have known him, even for such a short time, had been something. It was more than he had ever expected.

"I need you to go to Vigil's Keep and tell Nathaniel Howe that I am alive, but that I am not returning. Tell him that I'll only return if there is a great need for me."

"And if he asks where you can be found if this need arises?" Leandro asked.

Tristan stared off into the sky. He didn't want to be found. "If I am needed, I will know. I will make myself visible."

Before Tristan had set off to the Anderfels, he had discussed with Varel things that should happen if he did not return. He had told Varel to hand over the Arling back where it belonged, with the Howe family. Nathaniel Howe had earned it and he was sure Alistair would make no objections, as long as the Grey Wardens got to retain Vigil's Keep. The command of the order, well, he hoped Nathaniel would take that over too. He was more than competent for the job. He just hoped the loss of Melisende wouldn't break the poor fellow.

"This is what you want?" Leandro asked, no doubt puzzled about his decision. "Are you sure?"

"I am sure."

...

The weeping willow rustled in the light breeze. Brenna sat under it, flipping half heartedly through a book. She wasn't really reading. The words on the pages filled her mind, only to disappear just as quickly. A black and white kitten rubbed against her legs, mewing for her attention. She threw the book onto the ground and picked up the kitten. It was so soft, so pure. The kitten purred, digging its claws into her tunic.

A few tears slid down her cheeks. She had received a letter from Melisende, confirming the rumours. The ship that Tristan was on had sunk. He was gone. She should have gone to tell Siofra as soon as she had heard, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't be the bearer of bad news. Eventually, she knew she would have to go, but for now she just wanted to get a grip on the whole situation.

Ronan had been on the ship too, much to Brenna's surprise. He had survived along with Melisende, though he had disappeared in the Free Marches. At least he was alive.

She gently put the kitten down onto the ground and wiped away her tears. Life just wasn't fair sometimes. Just when she thought it could be good, that she could have something with Tristan, the Maker took him away. Was she to be alone in this world? Why had the Maker taken away everyone she loved?

Brenna stood up, ready to return home, to her empty house, with its happy memories. Memories that kept her up at night, wishing for a future she would never have. The kitten scurried after her, darting through the door when she opened it. She watched the kitten come to a stop in the middle of the room. It stared back at her and then jumped ever so high as a chair scraped the floor, frightening it. Brenna's heart jumped too. Who was in her house?

"Brenna?" a familiar voice called out.

Brenna's heart beat faster. She couldn't move and she couldn't speak. She felt like she was having one of those nightmares where she tried and tried to call out but nothing would come. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was a dream, a pleasant dream, for he came out of the shadows. Tristan was supposed to be dead.

Brenna blinked once, twice, three times, yet still he remained before her. This couldn't be. Could it? He moved closer, grinning at her. Teasing her.

"Tristan?" she cried out, questioning her sanity. He was so near her now. His chest moved as if he were breathing. She timidly placed a hand over his chest, wanted to take it back as she felt his heart beating, but he covered it with his own.

"Are you real?" she asked.

"Yes." Tristan replied. She closed her eyes, unable to believe. She felt his hand under her chin, tilting her head up. She opened her eyes, tears burst forth in a slow trickle. She met his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes. "I am real," he whispered.

Brenna couldn't stop herself. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, her body tingling in joy. When they broke apart, she found that she had many questions for him.

"It had crossed my mind to hope that you were alive when I received a letter from Melisende, but I didn't dare, for I didn't want to disappoint myself." Brenna said.

Tristan looked quite surprised and confused. He arched a brow questioningly in her direction. "A letter from Melisende?"

"She is alive." Brenna said, smiling at the infectious joy the words brought to Tristan's face.

"What of my brother?" Tristan asked.

Brenna nodded her head. "He is alive too, but he has not returned home."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, smiling. "I never expected this. This is the best news I've heard in a long time. I thought they were dead. What of the others?"

"As far as I know, it is only the three of you that survived."

Tristan looked lost in his thoughts for a moment. "May the Maker watch over their poor souls then."

After a moment, Tristan smiled again, picked up Brenna and twirled her around once before setting her back on the floor. "I can't believe it! I should have known better than to think them dead. Oh, I can't believe it."

"Now you know how I felt a moment ago." Brenna said.

Tristan pulled her close and hugged her fiercely. She savoured the smell of him, something she thought she would never smell again. But there was something still troubling Brenna. Melisende had also written of their reason for heading to the Anderfels in the first place.

"You came back?" she asked. "What of the First Warden? Won't you be in trouble?"

"My duty is done. They think me dead. My life is my own." Tristan replied.

"You would leave the Wardens hanging?" Brenna pushed.

Tristan sighed. "Eventually, I guess I will have to return from the dead. But let me have my moment."

He embraced her again. She pushed him away, punching him in the chest. "You left without writing, you jerk!"

"I'm sorry. I hate writing letters. Maker knows, it took me long enough to write the other one."

"That's no excuse."

"I thought you would go to the Keep and they would inform you there."

Brenna sighed, shaking her head in frustration. "Why do I love you?"

Tristan grabbed hold of her hands, and brushed his lips against her finger tips. "You love me?"

"Are you really that surprised?"

Tristan pulled her close to him again. "No, I guess not. Did you know that I love you too?"

Brenna smiled, leaning into him hungrily. "I do now."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Clotilde slammed the door shut behind her, stalking furiously out of the Commander's study. Marcel waited for her in the long hallway, beams of sunlight running along the bright corridor. They were finally back in Val Royeaux, but that did nothing to stop the fury running through her.

"What did he want?" Marcel asked her eagerly.

"Cousland is alive." Clotilde replied.

"What of Amell?" Marcel asked, following Clotilde down the hallway. She stopped, a stream of light hitting her hair, turning it golden.

Not for one second did Clotilde think Tristan was dead. She was sure he had set the whole thing up. That dragon, he must have summoned it. He didn't want to face the First Warden. He knew he was in trouble. She shook her head, crossing her arms in anger.

"Cee Cee, you must stop spinning child's tales." Marcel had guessed at what she was thinking. "The Warden Commander of Ferelden is dead. He did not summon the dragon. There is nothing more we can do."

Clotilde narrowed her eyes deviously as the sunlight hit her face. Marcel sighed, shook his head, and carried on down the hallway without her. She had a right to be angry. He had escaped his day of reckoning, but the truth would come to light one day about the Hero of Ferelden. As she walked away, that was the only thought that satisfied her, mollified her for her failure at bringing him to the First Warden.

...

The ruins were safe once again, yet they crumbled a little more as each day passed. Tristan remembered the last time that he was there, how excited Finn was to behold the ruins. He had been too preoccupied to take it all in. Now he gazed at the beauty of the old thing, overgrown, crumbling, but once they were amazing. He realized that this was the place where Siofra and Red fell in love against all rules. He placed a hand on the ancient stone, feeling the energy seeping through it.

The forest crackled softly behind him. He turned around to see Brenna leading Siofra to him. His mother looked surprised, a hand covered her mouth. She came up to him and placed that hand on his face for a brief moment.

"I knew they were naught but rumours." Siofra said.

"I am still supposed to be dead, though." Tristan said with a grin. "I trust your clan, but I didn't want to put them in an awkward situation by showing myself."

Siofra glanced curiously at Brenna as she laced her hand through Tristan's, sidling up closer to him. "I am happy that you came to me."

Tristan shrugged. Red's ghost plagued his mind, yet the man had asked him not to tell Siofra that he had been alive this whole time. Tristan had told Brenna everything and they had discussed what he should do. Siofra might be happy to know that he had known his father, even for such a short time. In the end, however, he couldn't bear to tell Siofra the truth. It would only hurt her.

"We have news of Ronan." Brenna said.

Siofra turned to Tristan eagerly.

"He is in the Free Marches." Tristan said.

"I wish he would come home." Siofra sighed. "His place is here with his clan."

"Ronan is an adult. He can make his own decisions." Tristan found himself saying. He found it a little odd that he was defending the annoying lout. _Stranger things have happened_. Now that he seemingly was free to do as he wished, he wanted everyone else to have that, even his irritating little brother.

"He's still my baby." Siofra replied.

Tristan couldn't help but smile at the thought.

"Is there something else?" Siofra asked, noticing the slight uncertainty in Tristan's stance.

Tristan wasn't sure how to go about this. He thought he could do something for Red, that he might ask Siofra to do, but still, he hesitated. "I hear you have a lovely voice."

Siofra gazed at him curiously. "So I am told."

"Would you sing for a friend? Sing him to the Beyond?"

"Who is this friend?" Siofra asked. "A Dalish?"

Tristan shook his head. He stared at his mother, could feel the sadness overcome his features. "He was not, but he dearly loved a Dalish once."

Siofra seemed to hesitate, a puzzled expression on her face, but then she nodded her head in agreement. Taking a deep breath she began to sing. Tristan gave Brenna's hand a squeeze. Red, no, Rory, would surely hear this and be happy at long last.


End file.
